Wild At Heart
by silveraure
Summary: Cold, deadly, and haunted, James Wilder is a frontiersman in the Old American West who becomes the unwilling protector of his boss' frightened and abused daughter Victoria Childress. Pre-Twilight, Dark Themes, Vampires
1. The Hunter

**All Twilight characters are the property of Stephenie Meyer. **

**Follow me as I delve into the dark, sordid history of the two sexiest vampires you love to hate – James and Victoria. **

**Please be advised that I make no apologies for evil deeds done by characters. This story will contain strong violence, language, and sexuality. This is the only warning you will get.**

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**The Hunter**

The early morning light shone down in dappled shadows on the forest floor, where a crush of dead leaves had settled underfoot the old growth trees. The sky was clear overhead; the air was cool and thin. A few late season thrushes chirped away in the trees above the shallow stream. A light wind shook through the trees, loosing a few dozen leaves from their branches and floating them gently down to the flowing water. A doe stepped into the clearing, her warm breath coming out in foggy puffs in the cold morning air. She ambled cautiously to the stream and bent her head to drink.

I was waiting for her. From my crouched position beside a prickly holly bush, I counted backwards from ten in my head to will my hands to stop shaking. _10... 9... _I squeezed my eyes shut and bade my heart to stop hammering in my chest. I wasn't afraid of _her_, you understand. I wasn't like some nervous beau pawing with trembling hand at the first filly who opened her blouse to him. I shook from _need_. The need to kill. _8... 7... _I continued counting. Without a sound I crept forward on my hands and knees through the underbrush. When I was as close as I could get without exposing myself, I flattened my back against the trunk of a sycamore and ventured a peek at the stream bank. The doe was lapping water up languidly with her tongue, her eyes closed from the pleasure the cool water brought as it slid down her throat parched from sleep. A bead of cold sweat ran down my neck.

_6... 5... _I raised my weapon and relished the electric charge of power I felt radiating down its barrel to its butt pressed hard into my shoulder. My hands stopped shaking. I swallowed hard and took my aim. _4... _Slowly, quietly, I pulled the hammer back with my thumb, internally wincing at the tiny _click_ it made as it locked into place. The deer twitched her ear at the sound and raised her head. I stopped breathing. _3... 2... _I waited until she had lowered her head to the water again, exposing the top of her spine to me. ..._1. _I finished counting. Steadily, mechanically, I pulled back the trigger, my held breath finally gushing out in a _whoosh_ as the lead bullet exploded from the gun in a cloud of powder and noise.

The forest fell silent, with even the birds pausing mid-song to regard my offense with revulsion. I hadn't realized that my eyes were closed until instinct urged me to open them again. The doe lay sputtering in the stream – paralyzed by my shot, but not yet dead. I tore headlong through the bushes and splashed into the water to reach her. Tossing my gun aside, I fell to my knees beside her body in the stream. I lifted her head in my arms almost tenderly, her only act of resistance the frantic fluttering of her nostrils as she struggled for breath. I pulled my Bowie knife from my boot and pressed the blade to her neck. She gazed up at me, her deep brown eyes heavily hooded by dark, tragic lashes – she was so beautiful, so helpless. I smiled grimly down at her and stroked her brow in reassurance. Her eyelids drooped closed and she made no further protest when I pushed the blade into her throat.

When it was done, I wiped the bloody blade on the leg of my pants. I stood up and threw her body over my shoulder, a thrill trembling up my spine at the sensation of her hot blood oozing down my back and her pulse slowly fading away against the back of my neck. My whole body was humming with triumph. Never did I feel so electrified and _alive_ as I did after a kill. I was the hunter. I was the master of life and death.

I had just stepped back onto the trail when a strange sight caught my eye. Over the line of trees I noticed a distant cloud of black smoke in the direction of town. Something was obviously on fire. Curiosity overwhelmed me and I quickened my pace.

As I neared town I realized that the smoke was actually coming from some distance beyond the small cluster of buildings that earned the dubious title of "civilization" around here. Canyon Ridge was the pathetic skeleton of a Forty-Niner mining camp that had been abandoned years ago after the meager deposit of gold in the surrounding hills ran dry. It had only been revived recently by the surge of cattle ranchers brought this far West by the new railroad – the same railroad that brought me here, incidentally.

I walked cautiously through the near-empty streets, all the usual signs of morning life abandoned in favor of the excitement of the fire. Shop doors were left open, barrels overturned, horses left untended... A man in the mind for mischief might do well for himself in circumstances such as these.

"Wilder, where in the hell have you been?" An agitated voice shook me from my private scheming. I turned to see a young blond man with a pair of nervous, watery green eyes that I (unfortunately) recognized as belonging to one Ernie McClellan, who was currently trying to coax his frightened horse into letting him mount it. The horse whinnied and shied away from him, earning a curse and smack for its insolence.

"You ever try that move with a woman, McClellan? It might prove more effective," I suggested helpfully.

"I ain't got time to have your goddamn notion of fun poked at me, Wilder!" he barked back in a voice pitched higher than usual from strain. I made no move to answer him, contented for the time being merely to watch his pathetic attempts to domesticate the beast. Finally, he managed to pull himself into the saddle and started tightening the cords that were securing what looked like a stack of buckets to his horse.

Once safely aboard his transportation, McClellan continued, "Childress' goddamn barn caught fire early this morning and he's all up in a righteous fit of fury over it." McClellan's father had been an Irish preacher and a drunk, hence Ernie's particular brand of elocutionary eloquence. "He sent me out for buckets – _buckets!_ As if there were a goddamn drop of water in the well to spare. Ha! Jesus, why in the holy hell are you draped in blood and a dead deer, Wilder? You are one strange fucker, you know that?"

My voice replied calmly, "It's called 'hunting', you dolt. I hear it's quite popular among people who like eating."

"Alright. Whatever you say. Like I said, I ain't got time for your shit now. You better come with me, too, or Childress will know you were gone," he said as he extended his hand to me, intimating that I ought to climb onto his horse behind him.

"Nuh unh, I don't ride bitch for nobody, Ernie," I said, one side of my mouth quirking up into a smile. "Unless you're just itching to wriggle your way into my strong, yet sensitive, embrace."

"That – that right there. It's sayin' shit like that that makes people not like you, Jim. They think you're queer as all fuck. Go ahead and walk for all I goddamn care. I just know that if I don't get back in the next quarter hour you and me both are out of a job."

"Relax. Childress knows goddamn well there's no one else to hire out here." This wasn't an overstatement. Since the war back East had been on, many of the men who had moved out here to begin new lives found themselves anxious to return and defend their former homesteads. Or invade someone else's – depending on what side of the damned fence you were on. I wasn't on anybody's side.

"Sure, but if his barn burns down we're going to be out of a job all the same. No hay, no herd, _no work_. Look, I really gotta go," McClellan said with a nervous glance at the dark cloud on the horizon. "I don't care how you get there – steal a goddamn horse for all I care – but get there _quick_."

With those words he spurred his horse and galloped away. I grabbed a few more buckets from the unattended General Store and hurried up the road after him.

By the time I reached the Childress Ranch pandemonium had been all but extinguished. Pretty much the entire town had showed up for the initial excitement, and some had even worked to help keep the blaze from spreading out of control, but now that it was apparent that nothing more could be done for the smoldering barn the crowd had dispersed into muttering clutches to dispute the origins – and the implications – of the fire. I dropped off my hunting prize by the door of the workers' quarters before jogging up the hill to the barn. It was plain to see that the structure was nearly ruined. It would appear that the fire started in the hayloft, where the roof had been completely burned off. The walls of the bottom half of the building were soaked with water and ash, but appeared to be salvageable.

I was not unaware that my bloody clothes and generally wild appearance were earning me more than a few stares from the huddles of onlookers, but I was unconcerned with their good opinion. I caught sight of McClellan working to salvage some of the bales of hay not affected by the fire with a few of the other men in Childress' employ: Mason O'Morris, Peter Kittredge, Freddy Terrell, and the quiet new Red Man no one remembered the name of. McClellan saw me and waved for me to come over and help them, but my attention was diverted by the sight of a lone figure in white hovering near the tree line.

It was a girl. She was barefoot, and her wild red curls lay in unkempt clumps around her tear-stained face. My eyes fell to her nightgown, which was torn and stained with soot. Her feet and hands were scratched almost raw from lying too long in straw. She hugged her arms tightly to herself as a shield against the cold of the morning and the horror of the scene before her. She turned her sorrowful gaze to me and I felt a stab of unwelcome feeling in my gut.

"James," she cried hoarsely, grabbing up the hem of her nightgown and running towards me as if her life depended on it. As sad as it sounds, that might have been the truth. She ran into my bewildered arms, oblivious to the smell of blood and death still clinging to me. I was at once bemused and repulsed. I lifted an uncertain hand to her back, trying to stay the incessant pounding of her frightened heart against my chest.

"Vicky..." I said lowly, keeping my eyes raised and alert to my surroundings lest anyone observe this awkward embrace. Thankfully the attention of most was distracted by a falling beam within the barn. A series of shouts went up and McClellan and his crew ran inside, shielding their eyes against the heat and smoke still pervasive inside the barn.

"He finally did it," the girl sobbed, burying her face in my bloodstained shirt.

I was ill-equipped to deal with female histrionics. "Finally did what, Vicky?" I asked, calmly peeling her off of me and pushing her far enough away that a proper distance remained between us.

"_There you are_!" a deep and ungainly voice growled behind me. The comment was accompanied by the repulsive slurp of someone spitting tobacco.

The pair of us turned to the heavy-set, walrus-mustachioed man who spoke. The loathsome sloth stood before us in his dressing gown, poorly concealed by his fringed buckskin riding coat, and he yet stank of whiskey and tobacco from the night before. The very sight of him made my stomach turn – never mind the smell.

"Mr. Childress," I began, prepared to launch into an explanation of my absence this morning.

His beady eyes paid me no mind, as his gaze was completely captivated by the sight of the trembling girl before him. He spoke to her in a stern, slurred tone, "Victoria, your poor mother has been worried sick about you. Get your ass inside _now_ before I have cause to swat you one."

Her voice came out in a choked whisper as she said, "OK, Daddy." She shot one desperate, pleading look at me before running down the hill to the house below as fast as her legs would carry her, her mass of blaze-colored hair fanned out in her wake.

Childress' eyes followed her all the way down the hill, his wretched, bloated tongue unconsciously darting out and over his tobacco-stained teeth. "Wilder," he said finally, "So nice of you to join us. Go help McClellan muck out what's left of the barn, will you?" The rest of his sentiment was silent, but more than apparent in the glare he shot me: _And stay the fuck away from my daughter._

"Yessir," I mumbled and watched him hobble down the hill after Vicky.

_He finally did it,_ I thought to myself. _And it's all my fault._

This thought didn't bother me nearly as much as it probably should have.

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	2. His Prey

**Thank you so much to everyone who read the first chapter and a very special thank you to those who left a review! **

**All Twilight characters are the property of Stephenie Meyer.**

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**His Prey**

_Victoria's POV_

That morning found me huddled under a heap of straw in the hayloft of my father's barn, bleary-eyed from lack of sleep and shivering. The scant sunlight that filtered through the straw did little to warm me. On the contrary, its gentle fingers on my cheek sent a foreboding chill all the way to my core. It was morning, and I'd have to go back soon. There were rats in the hay – I could tell that much from the irregular writhing and buckling of the straw beneath me. I was certain that upon closer inspection I could also find snakes, but as long they continued to ignore me I was more than willing to keep that ignorance mutual. I knew they meant me no harm. If I closed my eyes and breathed in slowly, I could still smell the warmth of summer in the sundried straw. I could imagine that I was some wild, beautiful thing nestled tight in her burrow, surrounded by her friends the rat and the snake. We would hunt and eat each other later, but for now we would be still and rest...

A loud shout and a curse startled my eyes open. A warning and a threat followed. Even if I had so instructed them, my legs would not move. My mind was rendered torpid with fear, my body rigid. There was a crash and shattering of glass, and then heat and smoke. Flames crawled hungrily over the mass of straw towards me and I was powerless to stop them.

_He finally did it, _I realized as the world collapsed out from under me. _He finally found me._

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Some say I was the daughter of a great beauty. My father always said I was the daughter of an Irish whore. At any rate, the woman who was my mother died of consumption not long after my sixth birthday. Her death came much too soon for her heartbroken child, but much too late for her louse of a husband, who was already anxious to move on to his second wife. In the past ten years there had been half as many wives and just as many mistresses. Not all of them had died. My last governess once whispered to me that one woman had run away to the Continent to become an actress. However the authority of my governess was most likely not to be trusted, as she had gone on to become the fifth and current wife. Most of those that died departed this world in childbirth, or shortly thereafter. The babies never survived. I suspected this was because no good could come of my father's seed – including me. I don't mean to imply that my father did not sire me, but merely that I am not good.

As the years went on my increasing resemblance to my late mother grated on my father. My very appearance in the room was often enough to incite him to rages and shouting. An unsolicited word from me nearly always earned a blow. I made friends with the servants and became quite adept at hiding in my own household. Sometimes whole weeks would go by in which I completely escaped my father's notice. Then, inevitably, we would by chance pass in a hallway or find ourselves unhappily seated at the same table for a meal, and he would give me a brief look and a nod, as if to signal his consent to my continued existence. But he never found my hiding places. Without supervision or guidance I grew up like a wild, creeping weed that seems to transform overnight from an uncomely shrub to a towering vine covered in thorns – apparently thin and frail, but capable of crushing the structure to which it clings with the all the muscle of a vice. Yet (alas!) the demise of that structure would also signify the death of the weed. For this reason I could not bring myself to hate my father when he began to take a keener interest in me nearly two years ago. Suddenly the sight of me no longer repelled, but enticed him. Rather than ignore me, he actively sought my company. He told me I was pretty and took me out to dinners and to shows. He had beautiful clothes and jewelry made for me, and in general paraded me in front of society as if I were his new little porcelain doll. I was in heaven. My heart so sang with joy to at last have his approval that when he kissed me one evening after a bottle, I wept with gratitude. I was his princess in an ivory tower, enchanted by dreams of love.

The spell could not last for long. Once he ceased to be charmed by my reluctance to receive his advances fully, his patience with me expired. When words of love could no longer stir me, he employed other, more violent means of persuasion. He no longer took me out in public for fear that someone would notice the dark bruises on my face. I tried hiding again, but the servants would no longer aid me. My stepmother (and former governess) began to loathe me not only from jealousy, but also from fear of my father's retaliation against _her_ when I would not perform for him. Without comfort and without friends, I felt myself begin to wither and die inside. Fear and shame were my only companions.

I don't know what would have become of me if we had stayed back East, but, as it was, necessity dictated that we leave. My father's business had brought him considerable wealth, but little consequence in local society. When he could not marry his way into Boston's good graces, he abdicated. He bought a herd of cattle and a handful of men and made his way West. Any hope I had of breaking free from his influence was destroyed when he declared that I must go with him, as he would no longer pay for my keep in Boston. My father was as clever as he was cruel, and before long he had control over the entire town of Canyon Ridge. I stood by him as he rejoiced in his success, by all appearances his most devoted supporter. What choice had I? It's true that I might have run away, but the more I considered it, the more it seemed impossible. I was cleaved to him as surf to shore; retreat though I might, I was doomed to return with the tide. My only comfort in my new surroundings was the fact that the rigid confines of Boston society could not imprison me here. In this untamed wilderness, it was easier than ever to hide where no one could find me.

Except James. I could never hide from James, even if I so desired.

The day we met began in tragedy. That morning I was curled up on the window seat, staring out at the haze over the distant hills and making as little noise as possible. Downstairs, the household was dissolving into mayhem. My stepmother had suffered another miscarriage and was tearing the house apart in her grief. The servants were following quickly, albeit cautiously, in her wake to curb the extent of the damage. _My son, my son..._ she was wailing as she ripped the sheets from her bed. My father joined her in bereavement by swearing and smashing various bottles against the wall. He always mourned the boys, in his own way. He started calling for me and I knew I had to get out of the house before I became the next thing he threw against the wall. My eyes swung instinctively towards the edge of forest that backed up against the side yard. I knew the danger of hesitation, but I was yet too slow. Before I could move, the door to my bedroom was kicked open abruptly. My father, glassy-eyed and swaying from drink, stood in the doorway.

"S'pose you heard about Mandy's baby," he mumbled gruffly. He walked slowly to the window seat and sat down next to me, still wheezing from the exertion of climbing the stairs. He bowed his head and was quiet for a moment. I almost believed that he was sorry about the baby's death, but then he spat at me with venom, "I asked you if you heard, Victoria!"

"Yes, Daddy," I whispered, drawing my shawl up to my neck in some poorly conceived attempt at self-preservation.

He pried my hand from its death grip on the shawl and took it into his own. "It was a little boy," he continued, stroking his thumb across my palm.

I swallowed hard and closed my eyes, the sensation of his clammy skin against mine twisting a knot in my stomach. "I'm so sorry," I forced myself to say.

He was silent for a few minutes more, his cloudy eyes trained on the floor. Finally, he turned to me. "You would have liked to have had a little brother, wouldn't you have?" he asked, inclining his head towards mine so that our faces were separated only by a few sheer inches of air that quickly staled with his breath.

"Very much, Daddy." My hand began to shake in his brawny grasp.

His mouth set into a grim line. "Your mother's saying that you've been agitating her and that's how come she lost the baby, Victoria." He raised his grip to my wrist and tightened it painfully.

I could not even pretend astonishment at this accusation, nor could I utter a single word in my own defense.

"Say it ain't so, honey!" The way he looked at me was plaintive and almost sympathetic. "You love your mother, don't you, Victoria?" He moved his hand up to cup my cheek tenderly. I squeezed my eyes shut to keep the tears from spilling. This hurt so much more than the beatings. It was amazing how one gentle caress prickled and stung my skin ten times as hard as any slap ever could.

I managed to get out the word, "Yes."

His thumb brushed over my trembling lip. "And you love your poor old Dad, don't you?"

"Yes," I said, my voice beginning to crack, "I love you, Daddy." A sob rose up in my throat. "But I _can't_, Daddy, _I can't!_"

Seized with the strength of desperation, I managed to wriggle from his grasp and make my escape. I flew down the stairs and through the back door without care for shawl or bonnet. It was summer then, and the air was warm and damp with the morning's rain as it hit my face. I hitched up my skirts and ran aimlessly forward, tears streaming freely. I ran until my breath deserted me and my sides split, and then I ran until dizziness forced me to the ground. I tumbled and fell hard down a slope and over rocks and sticks and earth. I landed heavily in a rough patch of clover at the bottom of the hill. I stilled myself and listened carefully for any indication that someone had followed me. It was quiet but for the gurgling water of the brook nearby. _I'm safe_, I thought, delirious with relief and exhaustion. I hugged my knees to my chest, bent my head, and began to cry in earnest.

"You must be Victoria," a man's tenor voice said some time later.

The voice was pleasant and unassuming, but all the same its sudden speech startled me and I sat up with a gasp. I must have fallen asleep, for now dusk was falling. I had been gone too long, I realized. They'd be looking for me. A wave of panic swelled in my chest, and I raised a tremulous hand to my heart to hush it. I scanned my surroundings for the source of the voice and found a young man crouched beside the brook.

The man kept his face in profile as he bent to fill a canteen with water. I supposed he was mildly handsome in an ordinary sort of way. He had good, regular features: an angular chin and a small, Greek nose beneath a standard brow. When he stood, I saw that his height was slightly higher than average; his physique was the hard, lean form of a laborer. While I did not know the man himself, I did recognize the pinto horse tied loosely to the sagebrush along the bank, placidly grazing as it awaited its necessity. My heart sank with the knowledge that it was one of my father's horses.

"My father sent you, didn't he," I stated rather than asked.

He turned to me, and I was immediately arrested by the brilliance of his eyes. His deep, blue eyes betrayed a wild intensity that belied his cool demeanor.

"Yes," he said, striding easily towards me and offering me the canteen. "Here, you must be thirsty. Drink this," he urged, though his tone sounded impatient rather than concerned.

I made no move to take the canteen from him.

"What are you running away from, anyway?" he asked, sizing up my (admittedly) rather mangled appearance.

"Nothing."

"You must be running away from something. Unless you were just running for your own amusement. And forgive me, miss, but you don't seem to be particular amused at present."

He was taunting me, but I refused to be baited. "Do you have to take me back?" I asked, hoping my voice didn't betray the intensity of the anxiety that I felt.

This question seemed to pique his curiosity. He crouched before me to put our eyes on an equal level. He examined me closely, as if I were some rare specimen of bird he had the chance opportunity to observe in captivity. I shifted, finding the weight of his stare on me unsettling. He reached out and turned my face by my chin – neither gently nor roughly, but capably – and looked over it for some moments.

"He beats you," he said flatly, brushing back a strand of my hair that had fallen out of place. It was such a simple statement of fact, and yet it had a profound effect on my already rattled nerves. Surely he was seeing the bruises from my tumble down the hill – my father had not hurt me in any way that would leave a visible mark in weeks – but all the same he had guessed _the truth_.

"Yes," I answered breathlessly. How could I be admitting such slander against my father to a practical stranger? I recalled that no one had ever asked about my father's treatment of me before. This man didn't ask either – he _told_ me what so many people were shy to even guess at in the privacy of their own thoughts. My teeth began chattering senselessly. The evening air was yet warm, but fresh thoughts of my father had aroused new terror in me. He would be furious when this man returned me home, and even angrier if he found out I had told someone how he treated me. I tried to amend my statement by adding, "I mean to say..."

"Don't lie to me, Victoria," the man commanded me. "I've done nothing to betray your trust. This is no way to begin an acquaintance."

"I'm sorry," I apologized immediately – such as was my habit. My father had trained me well.

He looked displeased with my response, but he ignored it. "Can you not run away?" he asked, rubbing his hands up and down the sleeves of my blouse in an attempt to warm me. _Stupid man_, I thought absently. _He thinks I shiver because I'm cold._ But this man was nothing approaching stupid. He knew the truth. His eyes were boring into mine and he was reading the guilt in my soul. _He knew_.

"I cannot."

"Have you no relatives that would shield you?"

"My mother is dead and her family will have nothing to do with us anymore. My father has no living relations."

"But you are not uneducated, I think. Could you not find a job as a teacher or a governess and support yourself?"

I made no reply.

He lowered his touch to my unsteady hands and I flinched. He looked levelly into my eyes and I felt every guard in my being drop. His gaze was sharp as a hawk's, and I was sure he knew there was more to my story than I was telling. "You know I have to take you back," he said.

"I know," I said, nodding to indicate that I was resigned to my fate. It pained me to return, but it was a familiar and comfortable ache.

He pulled me up by my hands so that I stood before him. We stayed like that for some moments with eyes and hands locked, freeman and captive, hunter and hunted. Finally he led me to the waiting pinto horse and helped me mount it.

"I cannot ride," I informed him. The fact that I never learned was probably a precaution on my father's part.

He nodded, and wordlessly swung up to sit behind me in the saddle. My breath caught in my throat as he settled himself in his seat and pulled my body hard against his own for support. He secured one arm around my waist and urged the horse onward. Of its own accord my body relaxed against his chest, and if my imagination did not mislead me I perceived his grip around me tightening in response.

Dread returned as the ranch house loomed in view. "How did you find me, anyway?" I asked casually. It was the kind of question a fugitive might ask of the sheriff who finally manages to reel him after years on the lam. It was meant to alleviate the humiliation of capture by means of providing closure. I didn't need closure, exactly; I was just curious to know how he had found me when no one else had ever been able to.

I felt a short laugh rattle in his chest. "It wasn't that hard if you knew what to look for. By the looks of it you made your way to the brook by means of a charging elephant, am I correct?"

I didn't want to laugh, but I did anyway. The sound felt alien and hollow in my throat, and I didn't like it. "Let me off here, please," I said quietly. I wanted my father to think I came back on my own. Maybe my cooperation would lessen his desire to punish me. Maybe.

He didn't seem surprised at my request. "Sure," he said, dismounting the horse and helping me to the ground. I found myself again locked in an unusual sort of embrace with the man, but I was in no hurry to escape it.

"Thank you," I said with lowered eyes.

"Thank you for what?" he asked with a derisive snort. "For bringing you back to your father?"

"No!" I answered quickly. Truth-be-told, I wasn't entirely certain why I was thanking the man. All I knew was that there existed a meaningful connection between myself and this stranger that I was powerless to ignore. "Thank you for... understanding," I said in conclusion. _And for not judging me_, I added in my thoughts.

I turned to walk back towards the house, but he caught me unkindly by the arm. I looked up at him without fear.

"If you ever have need to hide again," he said softly, "I might be able to be of service to you."

I felt tears of appreciation springing forth and I moved quickly to quell them. "I don't even know your name," I said simply.

"You can call me 'James'."

"And you can call me 'Vicky'. My father's the only one who calls me 'Victoria', anyway."

In the following weeks, James made good on his promise to help me evade my father when the need arose. He kept me informed of which outbuildings were empty or unguarded and left windows and doors unlocked for me when he could. We communicated in secret: I might send him a look from across the yard and later find a crumpled note in his scrawled hand wedged under the sill of my window or a key hanging out of place beneath my coat in the foyer. My father was none the wiser that I had assistance, but he felt my absence from my bed some nights keenly. I knew his ire was mounting, but as long as I managed to avoid being alone with him I felt that I was immune somehow. James' manner towards me throughout was always guarded and carefully detached, but for whatever display of feeling he failed to demonstrate I more than compensated for with my own enthusiastic gratitude. For the first time in my life I had an ally, and for this small comfort I would be fiercely indebted to him for the rest of my days.

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Either providence or blind luck led me from that burning barn. All I can remember is landing hard on my feet and limping for the main door. Once outside I concealed myself just inside the edge of the forest. My head was throbbing and my throat was hoarse from smoke. As I stood there the understanding that my father made an attempt on my life finally sank in and I wept. I knew I ought to run and leave this place forever, but a nagging emotion compelled me to stay yet a while longer. I watched the crowd gather around the blaze and my father's men scrambling to extinguish it. The entire town was here to witness my shame, I thought.

The eventual sight of James approaching shook me with elation, and I didn't hesitate before running to him. Wrapped in his embrace – however reluctant – I was home. I would offer him all of my shame, all of my weakness, for nothing else but to glorify his strength. For as ardently as I had clung to my father before, so I now clung to James Wilder.

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	3. Greed

**All Twilight characters are the property of Stephenie Meyer.**

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**Greed**

_James' POV_

I watched Childress walk away from me, the knowledge of what he had tried to do to his daughter gnawing and burning in the pit of my stomach. My hands tightened into fists and my lip pulled back in a sneer. To say I hated him was too mild. Abhorrence, repugnance, detestation – perhaps an artfully arranged combination of those words might begin to hint at the tangled knot of loathing I felt towards the man. In that moment I was glad there was already blood on my hands; another second of his company and there might well have been more. With a loud swear and a cruel kick to a nearby bucket, I turned back to the barn and my fellow workers.

We worked the morning through in the barn, raking out what hay from the loft that could be salvaged and piling it under a makeshift pavilion we'd made from timber that had fallen when the roof collapsed. There wasn't much collected. Peter Kittredge and Freddy Terrell brought their horses and hauling harnesses from the stables and used them to pull the fallen beams that were too heavy for us to lift out into the yard, where the local carpenter scoured them for faults and cracks that would render them unusable. A few boys from town eagerly volunteered to collect the pieces of wood too charred and splintered to be reused and toss them into buckets for the kitchen stove. If any of us suspected the true cause of the fire, we remained dutifully silent.

Childress himself appeared after a time, dressed and freshly washed. He watched us work silently, his arms crossed and his beady eyes narrowed as he scrutinized our every move. His only involvement in the work was an occasional bark and a point of his finger to orchestrate our labor. He made a few slow surveys around the ruined barn before taking his leave without another word or instruction. As he walked past me I felt a bitter taste form in my mouth. I spat at his turned back.

The morning heated quickly, and with it the men's tempers. After hours of hard, dirty, and entirely unnecessary work the men were tired and irritable. All hope of breakfast showing up had been completely abandoned by noon, and it wasn't until 2 o'clock that Cook came around with a basket of cold joint and corn bread. Before Cook left I tipped him off to the deer carcass outside the bunkhouse. I'd already gotten all the enjoyment out of it that I expected. He regarded me with a curious expression, but shook his head in acceptance, muttering something about how it would be nice to have something other than salt pork for a change. On his way out he promised us soup and coffee in the mess hall once we were finished with the barn, but regretted that Childress had forbidden us to break until then. The men groused and cursed under their breath, but limited their mutinous actions to chewing rather loudly and more violently than usual.

"Fucker wants us to go out and do a head count again after we eat," Kittredge muttered over his food, not bothering to wipe a line of grease that had dripped into his beard. He was the oldest among us by a span of two decades, and for that reason his words commanded a slightly heavier weight over the low rumble of conversation.

The five of them – Kittredge, McClellan, O'Morris, Terrell, and the Red Man – were seated on a timber they had fashioned into a bench. I sat some distance apart from them on the grass – taking in every word, but contributing nothing to the discourse.

"How many goddamn times does he expect us to count the sons of bitches? We just did it yesterday!" Mason O'Morris said with irritation, polishing his knife with the hem of his dirty work shirt.

"He thinks someone's been rustling them."

O'Morris was incensed. "What – because a couple of head go missing? It ain't that illogical that one or two would wander off – it's not like he got a fence to keep 'em in!"

"Well, what's he aim to do if they _were_ stolen?" McClellan interjected, "Who's he think done it?"

Kittredge shrugged and took another bite. I pulled my pouch of tobacco from my kit and began to roll a cigarette, feigning disinterest in the topic of discussion.

"Childress thinks it's Delgado," the Red Man said, folding his napkin and neatly tucking it into his pocket. The others turned to look at him with surprise.

Vincente Delgado was a powerful and wealthy Spanish _Don_, the owner of a nearby cattle ranch, and the closest thing Donald Childress had to an arch nemesis in Canyon Ridge (for the time being, at least). Occasionally we saw his dark-skinned _vaqueros_ out on the range, outfitted in fringed _armitas_ and ammunition belts astride small, Oriental horses. The only communication we'd ever shared was a mistrustful glance or a curt nod in passing. None of us had ever seen Delgado himself, but any enemy of Childress was likely worth knowing in my opinion.

"_Shit_," Terrell cursed beneath his breath, a fearful realization suddenly dawning on him. "Childress asked me to send a post over to Shasta and order a new branding iron."

We were all silent for a moment as we digested this new information.

"Fucking hell," O'Morris said after a moment, awed by the magnitude of Terrell's implication. "He's lost his damn mind!"

"Whoah, just what are you meaning to say exactly, Freddy? So he ordered another branding iron – so what? That don't mean he's plotting something as reckless as..." Even as he spoke, McClellan began to doubt his own words.

"...as stealing from Delgado?" Kittredge concluded McClellan's thought on his behalf. "You bet your ass he's that reckless. Man's drunk on power. He's gone spooky."

Terrell ran his hands through his dark hair anxiously. "Is he trying to get us _killed_?"

"Oh, Childress don't care nothing for us, s'long as his cattle get drove and his pretty wife and daughter get their bonbons and ribbon," O'Morris drawled, sliding his knife back into his kit.

I stiffened at the mention of Childress' daughter, but no one but McClellan seemed to notice anything amiss in my practiced scowl. Whatever he suspected, he kept it to himself.

"You don't think..." Terrell had a thoughtful frown on his face. "I mean, if Delgado _is_ stealing from Childress – you don't think the fire...?"

"Childress is a fucking idiot," I said abruptly.

Everyone turned to look at me, astonished not only at my sudden speech, but also at the audacity of my claim. I licked a slow, deliberate line along the edge of the rolling paper and sealed my cigarette before continuing. "Delgado is _not_ stealing from him. Why would he be so stupid? He has at least twice the number of head as Childress and three times the wit," I scoffed.

They inclined their heads towards me sympathetically, but did not respond to my accusation directly.

"I don't like it," Terrell said, shaking his head. "Even if it's not on account of Delgado this fire don't seem natural."

None of us ventured a further comment on the subject, but our communal agreement on its oddity was tacitly implied. I reached for my matches.

"Well I ain't going to count head this time all the same," McClellan said by means of changing the subject. "Y'all can go," he said, pointing a finger at Terrell and me. "'Morris and I went last time."

I favored him with a glare as I struck a match and brought its flame to the tip of my cigarette.

"I'll go," the Red Man said.

"I can go count head, too, I guess," Terrell said, fidgeting with the cuffs of his jacket. It was plain to see that his nerves would be better served by a task than by idleness.

"Who's all going into town tonight? I got a new deck I'm hoping to break in." O'Morris asked, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. O'Morris loved nothing better than women but cards.

"Not me," Kittredge said, stretching his aging knees with a noisy _crack_ and standing up. "Wife's making me supper."

"I'll go," McClellan agreed gamely. Terrell and the Red Man mumbled an acceptance of the invitation as well.

Not that anyone was actually soliciting my company, but all the same I declined the invitation, citing other errands. That those errands involved concealing the boss' runaway daughter did not bear mentioning.

We were all just preparing to part company in pursuit of our individual chores when Childress returned, his beefy arms folded behind his back in some farce of a military general's posture.

"Men," he announced, sniffing loudly and starting a pace in order to lend to his air of authority. "This is how it is." Here he paused for dramatic effect.

Everyone else exchanged worried looks. I took another drag of my cigarette and waited for the bastard to get on with it.

"How it is," he continued, "is the way it stands, we ain't got the means to keep you all on 'till spring. We lost too much feed in the fire, and more'll have to be bought to maintain the herd until next drive."

O'Morris looked about ready to fly off the handle. Terrell's knees visibly buckled.

"Now listen," he said, raising his hand in a grand gesture of magnanimity, "The way I see it, we have two options. Either someone gets let go, _or_..."

Kittredge was shaking his head. The Red Man was crushing the brim of his hat in his hands.

Dopey-eyed McClellan was the only one to take up Childress' prompt. "...or what?" he asked, "...sir?"

"Or we can make a smaller drive to San Francisco before winter – maybe a thousand head or so. That way we'll have less head to feed over the winter and more money to do it with. And of course, we'll all still be employed."

A general sentiment of shock rippled over us. It was an outrageous proposition and Childress had to know it. There were less than two months left before winter would begin in earnest and even in fair weather – _without _a thousand hungry head – crossing the Sierra Nevada was treacherous. With only a handful of men and over two hundred miles to travel, it might take weeks, and there could already be snow in the pass on the way back. And what was this _we_ shit, I wondered? _We_ weren't the ones who burned down our own fucking barn because our teenage daughter wouldn't let us play in her knickers, yet _we_ were the ones being sentenced to death or unemployment, alternatively. But for all his vileness, Childress wasn't stupid. We all understood grimly that as dangerous as this drive might be, it really was the only hope the ranch had of surviving until the spring.

Childress took our stunned silence for accord. "Good. We'll set out on Monday." This was in two days' time. "I'll leave you with a list of supplies," he said, turning to McClellan, who took the list from him dazedly. "Now get back to work. I need that head count before supper."

When he was out of sight, Kittredge groaned aloud, "I think I will accompany you boys to town tonight. I have the powerful urge to get drunk."

* * *

It was dark when I finally entered the bunkhouse that evening. I didn't bother with lamp or candle as I felt my way along the rough plank wall to my bed. The low room was silent – the dozen bunks notably free of the snores and grunts that usually formed the nightly chorus of slumber. All of the men were either with their women or with their drink in town that night. I was content to be with neither if I could have but a moment's respite from my thoughts. My hand finally found the iron coat hook on the far wall that indicated I had reached my bunk, and I dropped my kit on the floor.

I sat down heavily on a wooden stool and bent to take off my boots. I was exhausted, and I was mad. I was mad at Childress for his petty greed and his meanness; I was mad at him for the way treated Victoria and the men; and I was mad at Victoria for being too weak to resist him and dragging me into this sick predicament in the first place. I pulled off my shirt and balled it up in an angry wad before pitching it at the corner.

A sharp intake of breath behind me caught my ear and I froze in place. The ensuing silence was thick and throbbing with anticipation. Soundlessly I scanned the dim room. The weak light bleeding through the grimy window brought my attention to the curtain around my bunk, swaying slightly as if recently disturbed. I launched myself at the bed, wrenching the curtain open with one hand and seeking out the intruder with the other. My fingers found purchase on the warm column of a throat and my lips pulled back into a snarl at the responding gasp. Recognizing my momentary advantage, I leapt atop the stunned figure and pressed the back of its head down hard into the lumpy cotton mattress, the rusted springs groaning in turn. I pulled my thumb over the offending trachea and pressed down. All at once I realized that there was _lace_ beneath my grip, and I released my hold on that neck as if it were on fire.

"_Vicky?_" I asked incredulously, pulling away and squinting down at her through the darkness. My eyes were finally adjusting to the low light and I could just make out the slender shape of her nose and the point of her chin.

She coughed before answering. "It's me, James," she said through gentle pants as she tried to regain her breath. She raised her hand to her throat instinctively, but made no effort to move out from underneath me.

"Damnit, I'm sorry... But – what the hell are you _doing_ here?" I asked, sitting up and tugging on my hair in frustration. Here was the girl I had ostensibly vowed to keep from harm and I had nearly throttled her myself. My every nerve was wired alive with energy and it was taking some amount of effort to calm down.

"I heard everyone would be in town tonight," she confessed, propping herself up to face me. "I figured this would be a good place to hide."

"Well, the bunkhouse probably _is_ a very good place to hide, but I'm more concerned with your being in _my_ _bed_." A fact that was very difficult to ignore, even in jeans. Her delicate scent of rosewater and lavender was noticeably out of place amongst the odors of pitch, leather, and sawdust; the pale blue color and the tiny pearl buttons of her dress stood in stark contrast to the flannel blanket of my bed, my dusty jeans, my bare chest.

"I'm sorry – I didn't know you weren't going to town with the others. After this morning I—I just didn't know where to go. I thought that he... And then you didn't..." A wave of emotion surged in her voice and I was afraid she might cry again. She turned her head to the side and swallowed down hard the rest of what she might have been about to say. Instead she concluded, "I can leave if you want."

"Don't go," I said too quickly, transfixed by the slight tremor echoing through the swell of her lower lip.

Her lip curved into a smile of relief as she turned to look at me. "Thank you," she breathed, her soft eyes not shying away from my hungry stare.

"Are you alright?" I asked cautiously, bracing myself for more tears. "Did he hurt you again?" The coil of tension in my stomach tightened at the thought.

"No, he didn't touch me. I think he's sorry," she said, her voice empty and defeated. "He was nice to me all morning."

"I don't care if he's fucking _sorry_!" The words exploded from my chest before I could stop them. "He could have killed you! And because of his reckless stupidity we have no barn and barely enough feed for two weeks of winter – much less two months – and now he's going to make us take a drive to San Francisco to make up for it."

"You're going away?" she asked worriedly, placing her slight hands on my chest as if to keep me from leaving.

"For a little while," I said, unsolicited stirrings of arousal burgeoning within me at her sudden touch. "But don't worry – your father will be coming with us. He won't be able to hurt you while I'm gone," I added, purposely misinterpreting her unease as concern for her safety rather than anxiety for my absence.

"I'm so sorry, James. None of this would have happened if he hadn't found me hiding in the barn," she whispered, leaning her head against my shoulder.

"Don't you _ever_ think this is your fault," I retorted, roughly pulling her face between my hands to make her look at me. "You wouldn't have been hiding at all if that bastard could keep his filthy hands off of you," I said, even as my own filthy hands were suddenly raking over her, pressing her body tight against me, pulling her mouth to mine. She made only a small sound of surprise before yielding beautifully to my kiss. She met my lips as ardently as she did inexpertly, her slender arms snaking around my neck. A frightened girl might have climbed into my bed, but it was a woman who lay in my arms. I could feel that she was offering herself to me completely and the thought drove me wild with need. I pushed her onto her back and took in the sight of her: her hair loose and her breast heaving, her deep brown eyes dark with desire. _I'm yours_, that look said plainly. _Take me._

"_Fuck_," I swore, pulling a shaking hand over my face. I stood quickly and reached for my boots.

"What's wrong?" she asked quietly. She wrapped her arms around her body self-consciously, looking for all the world like a lost little girl alone in the wilderness.

The air felt stifling in my lungs; the walls in the room seemed too close. I had to get out of there. I needed to go get drunk or laid or _dead_ – anything to keep me away from this feeling.

"I'm going to town," I informed her. "You can sleep here if you want."

I knew I'd hurt her by the crushed look on her face, but she made no protest.

"I'll come back," I promised her, softening my tone as I bent to kiss her forehead. There was more in that promise than I meant to convey. She relaxed and settled back into the bed. "I'll be here when you wake up," I vowed as I covered her with the blanket and drew the curtain closed around the bunk.

I didn't want to care about Victoria Childress or her problems or her horrible father. I didn't set out to possess her. And now that I did, I had no idea in hell what to do about it.

* * *

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	4. An Awakening

**All Twilight characters are the property of Stephenie Meyer.**

**Thank you again to all who read and reviewed the last chapter – you really make my day! A special thanks goes to Seraphine Deesse de la Nuit and Sorcha_Cullen for looking over this chapter for me and talking me through my writer's block. You're amazing :)**

* * *

**An Awakening**

_Victoria's POV_

I was started awake by the telltale shudder of bedsprings as another body entered my bed. My eyes flew open in a panic. No. This couldn't be happening. I went rigid with horror as the faint aroma of whiskey and tobacco wafted towards me. A warm body pressed itself brazenly against my back and my heart sank heavily with dread. I could have sworn I locked my bedroom door last night before I went to sleep. My mind spun with various alternative scenarios in which I escaped this situation unscathed, but such possibilities seemed hopelessly beyond my reach once an arm wrapped itself intimately around my waist.

Suddenly, I felt the familiar burn of day-old whiskers brush the back of my neck and I closed my eyes again with relief. _James_. The memories came rushing back to me of the passionate embrace we'd shared the night before and his strange and sudden departure. I had been so sure I'd done something to offend him given his reaction to the kiss. My reckless and girlish heart could scarcely believe that he'd returned as promised.

"Are you awake, Vicky?" he asked in a slurred whisper. His mouth grazed the sensitive area behind my ear as he spoke, sending a shiver down my body.

I was too scared to answer him lest I break the spell. I slowed my breathing, letting it sink and deepen with the weight of false sleep. If this were a dream, it was the most pleasant fantasy I'd ever succumbed to. I sighed and shifted against him, lost in the comfort of my protector's arms.

In his inebriated ardor he was well-disposed to believe my imitation of sleep and consequently let his hand wander over me without inhibition. A flutter of desire blossomed along my skin in the wake of his hand as it roamed higher over my stomach and breasts before finally settling into a gentle caress along my collarbone. I should have stayed his hand, but I possessed neither the desire nor the willpower. I wanted this in a way that frightened me. A sound I didn't recognize caught in my throat as he fumbled the top button of my dress open.

His hand froze at my suppressed outburst. I tried my best to still my breathing and feign sleep again, but he would not be fooled. He rolled away from me and within moments had fallen asleep himself, his back brushing against mine rhythmically with his breath. I lay wide-eyed and gasping in the dark, struggling to understand the new and exciting emotions he had ignited within me.

Much as I was loathe to, I knew I had to leave. When I was convinced he was asleep beyond waking and the rest of the room was encased once more in the deep snores of drunken sleep, I slipped from his bed and out of the bunkhouse. In the low light of the breaking dawn I floated as if in a trance through the yard, the thin early morning air prickling my inflamed skin. Alone in that morning, I felt so naked, so raw, so _alive_. I danced along the morning mist, impervious and invincible to any danger. I reached the house and pulled myself up onto the precarious trellis, the vine that bolstered it already withered and dead for the winter. I scaled it easily and climbed through my open bedroom window as quietly as my buoyant heart would allow me. I directed an appraising glance to the bedroom door, but it remained safely closed and betrayed no signs of having been disturbed during the night.

I fell back on my bed with a dreamy sigh. This must be it. This must be the reason people smile, I reflected happily. The memory of his lips on my mouth and his hands on my body warmed my cheeks to a ruddy glow. He cared. On some level, whether or not he was conscious of it, James Wilder cared about _me._ For what seemed like the first time, I watched the sun rise through the gauzy lace curtains of my bedroom window and felt no fear.

A short while later there was a knock at the door.

"Open this door, Victoria," my stepmother's voice reverberated sharply through the wooden door.

I rose calmly from my enamored daze to answer the door. She seemed surprised to find me dressed (but mercifully unaware that I was still in the same clothes as yesterday) and even more so to discover a serene look of satisfaction on my face.

"Sleep well?" she asked with only the barest hint of sarcasm.

"Fine," I replied neutrally. "How did you sleep, mother?" I fought the urge to add an editorial emphasis to the word _mother_. I was in good spirits today, and not even her petty vitriol could bring me down.

She didn't respond to my question. "Your father and the men are leaving on a cattle drive tomorrow and he would like our help making preparations."

I pretended to be surprised by the news, even though James had told me about the drive the night before. "A cattle drive? But I thought Daddy said he wouldn't do another drive until spring?"

She held up her palms as if to deflect my childish ignorance. "Don't question your father, Victoria." She looked tired, her eyes haggard. I wondered if she spent as many nights awake and afraid as I did. Strictly speaking, she couldn't be much more than a handful of years older than I was. We should be sources of each other's comfort – and yet we were forced to spitefulness and hatred by my father's faults. Yes, she was cruel, but she was hurting, too. Why was I only seeing this now?

I nodded and followed her without further question.

Downstairs my father was seated at the dining table, a large map and a steaming pot of coffee laid out on the table before him. His face went white when I appeared in the doorway, but he quickly swallowed his discomfort and smiled at me.

"Good morning," he said with feeling, standing up and extending his arms in anticipation of a hug.

I felt not the slightest semblance of hesitation as I walked into his open arms and planted a light kiss on his cheek. "Good morning, Daddy," I echoed cheerfully, picking up the coffee pot and refreshing his mug. "Mother says you're leaving us tomorrow?" Even though thoughts of James had inspired a permanent smile on my face this morning, I forced myself to frown at the mention of his leaving.

He seemed surprised at my warmth and replied cautiously, "Yes. I'm afraid the fire in the barn..." Here he paused to gauge my expression, which was carefully vacant. Satisfied with my indifference, he continued, "...has caused a minor setback in finances. We'll have to make a short drive to San Francisco to make up for it."

I leaned over the table and perused the map casually. "And how long will that take?" I hoped he didn't notice the nervous band of sweat forming around my temples. I examined the crude red line my father had drawn connecting Canyon Ridge to San Francisco. By the looks of it, the trail was over two hundred miles and it cut right through the middle of the Sierra Nevada Mountains.

"Three or four weeks," he said.

That long without James? I felt the mask of my good mood slipping away.

My father must have noticed the change in my disposition, for he amended quickly, "But it will take much less time to get back when we don't have the cattle slowing us down anymore."

I nodded and managed a weak smile. "Is it very dangerous?" I asked, requiring no pretense for the warm mist of tears clouding my vision.

The wrong arm snaked around my back comfortingly and drew me to the wrong broad chest. "Don't worry, darling," the wrong lips said as they pressed against my forehead. "I'll be back before you know it."

I wrapped my arms back around him and rested my spinning head against his shoulder. "I wish it were six weeks from now already," I said, and I meant every word. I willfully mistook the tightening of his embrace as a father's attempt to comfort his daughter.

Over my father's shoulder I caught sight of my stepmother's jealous glare boring holes into my forehead. Let her think what she wanted. If she even envied my pain, then she could have it. I refused to waste any more emotional energy on earning approval she was unwilling to bestow.

My father must have noticed my stepmother's stare, because he cleared his throat and took a step back. "Well, let's discuss what I need you two to do in my absence," he said, indicating that we should all be seated at the table.

I moved to the side of the table to allow my mother to take her place at the opposite head of the table from my father. She seemed momentarily mollified by my display of deference, and managed to ask me to pass the sugar with the usual amount of civility such an action might require. My father, now in the mindset of a businessman, launched into a discourse on what aspects of the ranch's management my stepmother ought to attempt and which ones she had best leave to the staff. My stepmother demurely accepted his instructions to relegate responsibilities, but I knew that her domineering nature was already plotting to take control of the ranch full by the reins in my father's absence. In addition to the regular upkeep of the facilities and the animals, the barn needed to be repaired as quickly as possible. My father had already sent a solicitation to the local circular page to advertise for temporary laborers. With the crops already sown or harvested for the season, there would be plenty of farmers grateful for the extra work, but with the miserly compensation my father was offering I was doubtful that there would be many applicants for the employment.

I only half-heard the instructions my father laid out. I sipped my coffee and nodded absently, protected by the pleasant fog of my good mood.

My father paused his dictation to admit the entrance of one of his cowhands, Ernest McClellan. The young man removed his hat and inclined his head politely in the direction of myself and my stepmother before crossing the room to my father. My stepmother looked askance at the trail of mud the young man left on the rug, but offered no further commentary. After a series of unsuccessful stutters and hand gestures, the young man bent to whisper something in my father's ear. My father paused to hear out the man, whose hands fidgeted profusely over the brim of his hat, clasped tightly between his hands. He seemed frightened and unsteady. His eyes spun wildly around the room as he spoke; his throat contracted compulsively. My father listened to him with a serious expression, chewing the inside of his cheek in concentration. At last, he waved a dismissive hand at the pair of us females to shoo us from the room.

My stepmother stood at once. "Come, Victoria. Let us see about hanging the wash," she commanded in the voice she'd often used as my governess.

I stayed rebelliously seated, attaching a look of blank stupidity to my features to conceal my true motive for disobedience. I wanted to know what McClellan had to say that would warrant such fear and secrecy. Had someone been injured? My stepmother warned me with a glare before reaching for my unwilling hand and leading me away. I followed her helplessly out of the room, down the hall, and out of the front door.

Once we were securely removed from the line of my father's sight and hearing, my stepmother abruptly changed course, steering us not towards the clothesline but to the space directly beneath the dining room window. She shushed me violently when I attempted to voice my confusion, and I reluctantly sank into a crouched position beside her under the window. We were still, and listened.

"Now repeat what you just said, and this time take care to make it sensical," my father was saying.

The younger man began to pace, and I could almost feel my stepmother cringing out of concern for the mud he was tracking on the rug. Insufferably vain woman.

"Kittredge and I were making our rounds on the range, checking in on the herd," he said. I imagined his tongue flicking nervously out of his mouth and over his lips before he continued. "We took a short-cut back through the woods, and the horses... got all twitchy."

"Twitchy?"

"Yeah, twitchy. Like jumpy."

I pictured my father frowning and making an impatient gesture for McClellan to continue.

"...so we thought to investigate. Thought it might be wolves, and we wanted to make sure. We dismounted and set out on foot. Afore too long we came across... a steer. A dead steer. There weren't no injury that we could see, so we figured him for sick."

"_Christ,_" my father cursed. I heard the clink of crystal and the heavy slosh of liquid that sounded somewhat thinner and more intoxicating than coffee. I knew he had to be calculating the losses that a disease spreading through the herd would cause.

"Now, I ain't no expert on animal veterinary medicine, but Kittredge is. He took a look at the body and turned to me, serious as the grave, and told me he'd never seen nothing like it. He said there weren't a speck of blood left in the beast. It was drained dry, but there weren't no wound. Now tell me that ain't the strangest thing you've ever heard!"

There was a moment of silence, in which I envisioned my father's hardened stare attempting to burn the truth out of McClellan.

Finally, my father spoke: "Did you find any other bodies?"

"Yessir, we found two more a little beyond the clearing where we found the first."

"Did you notice that any of the other steer seemed sick or weak?"

"No, sir, not that we noticed."

"And did you tell anyone else what you saw?" I could almost hear the gears in my father's head turning as he plotted the best way to keep this under cover.

"Well, no, but I didn't think—"

"Good. You don't need to think any more about it. If the other steer ain't sick, there's no problem, right?"

We heard the sound of someone shifting weight from one foot to the other. "I guess so..."

"McClellan, I need you to focus for a minute. We are leaving for San Francisco tomorrow and I need to know if we have a thousand decent steer to bring."

"Maybe, Mr. Childress, maybe. I just plain don't know before we get them all in a row. I'd venture to say we have at least eight or nine hundred – I couldn't say further than that."

My father's voice dropped to a quiet murmur, and my stepmother and I both craned our ears to listen to what he said next.

"Did you get the new branding iron?"

"Yessir."

"Do you know what to do with it?"

"Sir?"

"I asked if you goddamn know what to do with it, McClellan?"

McClellan was silent.

"You listen here: just make sure I have a thousand quality head to bring to San Francisco..." There was a slight scuffle and the sound of cloth being rumpled. The voices moved even farther away from the window, and I held my breath to barely catch the next words: "...and don't mind none what brand they're wearing."

My stepmother gasped, and suddenly we heard more voices around the side of the house. She took my hand again and hurriedly led me away from the window and towards the clothesline, where several other women were already at work hanging damp laundry. She quickly fell into working as if we'd been there the entire time. I dumbly grabbed a basket of clothespins and followed her lead.

McClellan appeared around the side of the house. Even from this distance I could see his hands shaking. Something black was clutched in a death grip between the fingers of his right hand. A branding iron. He looked around himself erratically, as if he could tell that someone was watching him. He lowered his hat over his eyes and pulled himself onto his horse, spurring it hard and fast out of the yard.

"Mother, did Daddy really mean...?" I foolishly started to ask as I watched him ride away.

She turned to me and slapped my face without hesitation – not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to warn. "Listen to me, Victoria. Don't you repeat anything of what you just heard – not to anyone. Not even to me," she told me.

Her expression was severe, but I could hear the slight waver of doubt in her voice. She was just as surprised at what she'd heard as I was. She was worrying her bottom lip between her teeth the way she did when she thought no one was looking. Sick cows were the least of our concern. If my father was serious about stealing cattle from another rancher, by law he and all his men could be hanged.

My thoughts immediately went to James. This was too much. It was more than I could bear. It was tolerable that he would be gone so many weeks, but beyond what I could stand if he should die. I worked quietly alongside my mother, handing her clothespins mechanically, all the while my mind reeling with anxiety. I had to warn James – but how? All of the men (McClellan notably excepted) were out on the range gathering the herd for tomorrow's drive. The rest of the ranch was abuzz with activity and would likely remain so well into the night, rendering it far too dangerous for me to sneak into the bunkhouse - even to leave a note.

I waited until my stepmother excused herself to the kitchen to help with the luncheon preparations and then slipped up to my room.

"_I have something important to tell you. My window will be open_," I scribbled hastily in the margin of a page I had torn at random from a book.

I folded the leaf into an impossibly small package and tucked it under the wristband of my sleeve. I would find a moment to steal away after lunch and deposit the note somewhere he'd be sure to see it – perhaps on the door to his pinto's stall in the stables. After I delivered the note, I would put all thoughts of it from my mind and go on playing the role of the dutiful daughter – and I'd pretend that the rapid fluttering of my heart stemmed only from concern for James' safety and had nothing at all to do with the idea of him climbing into my bedroom window later tonight.

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**As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts and comments in a review!**


	5. Deceit

**All Twilight characters are the property of Stephenie Meyer. The poems referenced in this chapter are "Imitated from Catullus to Anna" (1806) and "The Giaour" (1813) by Lord Byron. Cool stuff, you should check them out! I put the link to the full texts of them on my profile page.**

**Again, thank you to all my readers new and old! Your kind words really make my day. Thank you so much for your support of my story! 3**

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**Deceit**

_James' POV_

"Yep, that's a dead cow."

"No shit, 'Morris. You sure you didn't go to school?"

"You sure you don't want a bloody nose, Terrell?" O'Morris clenched his hands into fists.

Terrell's eyes went wide. "Jesus, Mason, I was just joking with you!"

"Will you two shut the fuck up?" Kittredge called over his shoulder in irritation. "This is serious."

Kittredge was crouched beside one of the bodies of the dead cows he had found earlier this morning with McClellan. Kneeling next to him in the damp grass was the Red Man, who was examining the animal with his characteristically serious expression. O'Morris and Terrell held our horses and looked on from the edge of the clearing. We had spent the morning herding off and corralling the cattle we intended to lead to San Francisco tomorrow morning. I leaned back against a tree, arms folded and expression blank, taking in the scene before me.

"What do you think, Silas?" Kittredge asked. "You ever seen anything like it?"

For a moment I was confused as to whom he intended by the name "Silas", until I finally realized that he was addressing the Red Man. Silas _Something_ was his name. Brown? Black? _Ahhh, yes – Silas Black._

"I'm not sure. Can you help me turn it over?" Black asked.

O'Morris exhaled noisily. "Since when is he a fucking expert on cows anyway? They even got cattle where he's from? Ain't they ride fucking wolves or some such shit?" Typically, O'Morris preferred to discuss people in the third person whether or not they happened to be present.

Just as typically, Kittredge ignored O'Morris completely. "Sure," he said in response to Black's request. He leaned down to get a grip on one of the animal's shoulders and gave it a good tug before admitting defeat with a frustrated swear. "Terrell get your ass over here and help us," he barked.

The young man hurriedly shoved the pair of reins he had been holding towards O'Morris, who accepted them with a sullen expression, then scrambled over to help the two older men turn the beast over to its other side. Despite his lanky frame, Terrell was unexpectedly strong. Once the cow was resting solidly on its opposite side, Black leaned forward, squinting at something on the cow's neck. His face paled visibly and he recoiled.

"What is it?" Terrell asked nervously. "What's wrong?" He dropped the cow's leg he was holding as if its dead condition were contagious.

"Do you know what happened to it? Was it sick?" Kittredge asked, eyeing Black's look of fear with concern.

Black shook his head gravely, taking off his hat as if deference to the wisdom he was about to impart. "I've heard about marks such as these," he said slowly, indicating the half-moon-shaped bite mark on the animal's throat. "Where I come from up North, my tribe has a legend..."

"Oh fuck me, not so more of your Indian voodoo magic bullshit," O'Morris snorted, shifting impatiently.

Terrell laughed reflexively, but then stopped short when he realized no one else was. He cleared his throat awkwardly.

Kittredge glared at O'Morris before turning back to Black. "Go on," he prompted. Even I leaned forward to hear what the man had to say.

"There is an ancient creature our fathers spoke of – a monster," Black said, standing back up and taking a step away from the body as if to distance himself from the horrors he was describing. "They were called 'Cold Ones', and they survived by drinking blood alone."

Everyone but me furrowed his brow in disbelief.

"Come on, man. You can't tell me you really believe that!" O'Morris said with a shake of his head.

"Do you have a better explanation?" Black challenged him.

"Yeah, how about a goddamn coyote bit the cow, got spooked and ran away, and the cow bled out. It ain't no miracle."

"Do you see any blood around here?" Black said, indicating the grass around the body, dry but for the morning's dew.

O'Morris shrugged. "Maybe the body was moved."

"I don't mean to interrupt your intellectual discourse here, 'Morris, but last time I checked, one coyote can't drag a half-ton cow all by itself, and I don't see any more foot prints around here," I interjected.

"Not to mention there are two more cows in the same state in the other clearing," Terrell pointed out quietly.

"Shit, not you, too, Wilder!" O'Morris looked at me, his eyes pleading me to join him on the sane side of the conversation.

I shrugged. "I didn't say I believed him – I'm just saying I don't have any other idea how this happened."

O'Morris scowled, but had no further answer.

I spoke up again, addressing Black, "What makes you think a monster is what did this? That bite looks almost human."

"That's exactly what it looks like," Black said, turning to me. "Cold Ones look just like us, but they're faster, stronger, quieter. Five of us wouldn't stand a chance against just one of them."

"And so, they just go around sucking the blood out of cows or what?" Kittredge asked skeptically.

"No, not just cows," Black said. "They prefer to drink the blood of humans."

"Like... like a goddamn _vampire?_" Terrell asked warily.

"I believe that is what you call them in your culture, yes."

An eerie silence washed over us, leaving us all feeling slightly more chilled than the late autumn breeze warranted. O'Morris tried to laugh, but his voice was pitched higher than usual, and the sound rang tinnily in the air. None of us looked the other in the eye, each of us struggling to reconcile the doubts, fears, and suspicions in conflict inside of us.

Kittredge finally broke the silence with a cough and a grunt. He leaned on the trunk of a tree to steady himself as he rose to his feet. "We better get a move on. Childress wants us back by sundown and we still have to come up with a couple hundred more head," he said, dusting off his pants and crossing the clearing to take the reins of his horse from O'Morris. He turned to look at us seriously, "And not a word of any of this..." he gestured to the dead cow "...to McClellan or Childress. I swore I wouldn't tell nobody."

"So why'd you tell us?" I asked with a sardonic laugh.

"Because, Jim, I think that if there really _is_ some mythical blood-sucking monster out there, I think we'll all be safer if each one of us is on his guard."

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We returned to the range. Kittredge and Terrell, the best horsemen, headed off and herded the animals into the makeshift pens O'Morris and Black had erected earlier that morning. With my unusual knack for finding things, I was charged with combing the range in search of stragglers and strays of our brand that had abandoned our herd to mingle with those of other ranchers. I particularly enjoyed this pursuit, as I was granted rather free license with the cattle prod to coax the errant beasts back to our side of the fence.

McClellan finally returned to us a few hours before sundown. His hat was missing, his cheeks burned, and his horse lathered with sweat. We all knew he had been to speak privately with Childress about the dead cattle, but we took care not to expose our awareness of this fact.

"Where you been, McClellan?" O'Morris asked, making an exaggerated show of his feigned ignorance.

McClellan took a moment to regain his breath before speaking, jabbing his thumb over his shoulders to indicate the direction from which he'd just come. "I found some of ours way back yonder by the canyon," he said hoarsely, taking a moment to wipe the sweat from his brow with his bandana. "They must have got separated from the others."

I narrowed my eyes at him. "I already looked by the canyon," I informed him. "I didn't see any of ours there."

McClellan's head swung towards me, his eyes only half-meeting mine. "Well maybe you didn't look hard enough," he said with forced confidence. "...'cuz I found a whole pocket of 'em on the north side."

My mouth hardened into an angry line. He was lying, but there was nothing I could do about it at present. "Then I guess I was mistaken," I said through clenched teeth, steering my horse in the direction in which he pointed.

"I reckon you were," he said, clearly enjoying his momentary advantage over me.

I fantasized about various ways to make McClellan bleed as I rounded up the freshly branded cattle by the canyon. With each sadistic stab of the prod, I imagined it was his watery green eyes looking back at me in horror, and not the dull brown ones of a steer. I managed to work out many of my frustrations this way, but I was still keenly worked up when I returned to the stables that evening. As I led my exhausted pinto into his stall, a scrap of white paper wedged between the boards of the door caught my eye.

I looked at the note in my hand with disbelief. It was a page ripped from an anthology of Lord Byron's poetry. The page in my hands contained a fragment of a poem filled with sensual imagery and romantic sentiments.

_ Oh! might I kiss those eyes of fire,_

___ A million scarce would quench desire,_

_ Still would I steep my lips in bliss,_

_ And dwell an age on every kiss;_

_ Nor then my soul should sated be,_

_ Still would I kiss, and cling to thee,_

_ Nought should my kiss from thine dissever,_

_ Still would we kiss, and kiss forever;_

_ E'en though the number did exceed,_

_ The yellow harvest's countless seed,_

_ To part would be a vain endeavor,_

_ Could I desist? – ah! Never – never._

Scribbled in the margins was the simple message: "_I have something important to tell you. My window will be open."_ I brought the thin paper to my nose, inhaling the delicate hint of rose and lavender that I now associated with Victoria Childress. I felt a cocksure grin spreading slowly over my face. Her message was indirect, but clear to me nonetheless: that little minx _wanted_ me to climb into her bed tonight! I knew she hadn't been entirely unconscious when I'd stumbled back into my bed this morning, drunk and ravenous. Yet she hadn't shied away from my touch as it boldly roamed over her body. Who knows how far I'd have gone if she hadn't stirred? Something about her vulnerable innocence was maddeningly alluring. I have never hungered for a woman the way I found myself lusting after this tortured girl.

I was folding the note back in half when the words on the reverse side of the page attracted my attention:

_ But first, on earth as vampire sent,_

_ Thy corpse shall from its tomb be rent:_

_ Then ghastly haunt thy native place,_

_ And suck the blood of all thy race;_

_ There from thy daughter, sister, wife,_

_ At midnight drain the stream of life;_

_ Yet loathe the banquet which perforce_

_ Must feed thy livid living corpse:_

_ Thy victims ere they yet expire_

_ Shall know the demon for their sire,_

_ As cursing thee, thou cursing them,_

_ Thy flowers are withered on the stem._

The breath left my lungs as if I'd been knocked in the chest. Somehow, Victoria knew about the dead cattle, but beyond that she knew something about Black's ridiculous monster. She didn't actually believe that there were vampires prowling around Canyon Ridge, did she? I returned to the bunkhouse to change clothes and wash up in a daze, uncertain as to whether I was headed into a romantic tryst or a supernatural confessional.

I waited until midnight. Most of the men were still tossing in anxious, shallow sleep as I quietly let myself out of the bunkhouse. Here and there a servant still scurried about, but no one seemed to notice anything amiss about me walking towards the ranch house at that hour. I looked around me to ensure no one was watching before slipping around the side of the house. Once under her window, I looked up at the flimsy trellis doubtfully. After a few moments of deliberation, I concluded that any and all risks of falling or being caught were outweighed tremendously by the girl waiting at the top of that trellis. I took a deep breath and began the slow, shaky climb to the top.

The window was cracked as promised, even though the evening air was cold. I pushed the window up silently and pulled myself over the ledge and into the dark room.

"James?" she called uncertainly from the darkness.

"Yeah, it's just me, Vicky," I said in a low voice, carefully sliding the window closed behind me.

"I was worried you weren't coming," she said.

I followed the sound of sheets rustling and stopped when my knees encountered the footboard of her bed. "You said you had something important to tell me," I prompted, resting my hands on the smooth polished oak of the bed frame.

"Yes," she said, surprising me by leaning forward and covering my hands with hers. Perhaps she had intended an amorous encounter after all? "Please, sit," she said, guiding me by the hand to the edge of her bed.

I followed her lead, bemused. As I found an uneasy perch on the edge of her featherbed she lit the lamp on the bedside table. I looked around the quilted, frilled, and doilied room with apprehension. How dare I presume to be the rough interloper on this guiltless scene? I turned instead to look at her, dressed in a white muslin nightgown much like the one I'd seen her in yesterday morning after the fire. Her wild, red curls were tamed back in a single plait over one shoulder. She kept her eyes downcast, her hands fidgeting uncertainly in her lap. She finally looked up at me and quickly licked her cherry lips. She was nervous. I was intrigued.

"Go on," I coaxed, edging closer to her. _Go on and tell me about the vampires so I can comfort you. Go on and declare your love for me so I can take you to bed._

Her eyes steadily widened as I moved closer, culminating in a tiny gasp as our knees touched. She squeezed her eyes shut as if to muster all her concentration and suddenly blurted out, "Daddy's rustling cattle!" She clapped her hands over her mouth in shock at her own outburst and watched my face for any reaction.

Well, so much for the declaration of love I was expecting. At this point, even the repetition of the rumor about a vampire would have excited me.

The eyebrow I raised at this anticlimactic information must have offended her, for she lowered her hands from her mouth and looked penitent. "You don't believe me," she accused.

I shook my head and took her hand, stroking her palm reassuringly with my thumb. "No, of course I believe you. I just already knew that," I explained. At her hurt expression I amended, "Or at least I guessed it. Tell me everything you know. You probably have information that I don't."

Appeased, she rattled off in a whisper the scene she had witnessed earlier that day between her father and McClellan. She told me about McClellan's description of the dead cattle and her father's orders for him to come up with the extra head with the aid of the new branding iron. I felt my temper rising as she provided evidence for all of the duplicity of which I suspected both men.

By the end of her account her chin was quivering with emotion. "...and if they find out you'll all be hanged!" she exclaimed, squeezing my hand tight between both of hers.

"I'm not going to let that happen," I promised her. I'd be damned before I'd allow Childress to drag us all into the mud along with him, and I'd make damn certain to kill him before he got me killed.

She smiled weakly with relief and threw herself into my arms for the second time in as many days. I smiled with satisfaction to myself as I smoothed a hand down her back. I recalled the completely different scenarios I had originally assumed when I received her note, and I suddenly laughed out loud.

"What is it?" she asked, smiling against my shoulder.

"So you mean to tell me you don't know anything about any blood-sucking monsters?" I asked, laughing again at how absurd the idea sounded when spoken aloud.

"What?" she asked, pulling back and returning my grin. "What blood-sucking monsters?" She shook her head in bewilderment.

I reached into the front pocket of my shirt and pulled out the note she had left for me in the stables. "When I saw this poem," I explained, indicating the passage in question, "I assumed you were trying to tell me that you had heard about the vampires, too."

It was her turn to frown. "No, I didn't even see this poem," she confessed, taking the page from my hands and reading the poem for herself. She looked back up at me and added, "But what do you mean 'too'? Did you hear something else about vampires today?"

I described Silas Black's explanation for the strange bite marks on the dead cattle.

"Do you really think that's true?" she asked, her brown eyes widening again in fear. "Do you think there's really a monster or a...vampire... out there killing the cows?"

"I have no idea," I told her honestly. "Whatever it is, it's clear that the cows didn't die of any sickness. Something killed them. We'll be on the lookout for what. Chances are it's not any kind of monster, but all the same while we're gone I think it's best if you stayed close to the house. I don't want you getting mixed up in any of this."

"I won't," she promised, a familiar dewy expression forming in her eyes.

"So did you mean for me to read the other poem then?" I asked slyly, bringing my hands up to cup her face.

"What poem?" she asked faintly, her eyes fluttering closed and her mouth falling open slightly as I leaned in closer.

"You know..." I said, smiling crookedly and brushing the tip of my nose against hers. "The romantic poem."

"The romantic poem," she repeated absently, her breath coming out in ragged bursts against my lips. Suddenly her eyes flew open. "Wait, _the romantic poem?_" she asked in a tone that bordered on the shrill. She shook her face from my grasp and reached desperately for the page she'd given me. Her jaw gradually descended into a gape of shock as she read over the sensual words I had supposed she meant for me.

"James, I... I didn't mean for you to read those words," she said, her voice trembling with feeling.

"No," I said, replacing my hands on her cheeks and sliding my fingers up into her hair, loosing her curls from the stern braid that restrained them as I pulled her face to mine. "But I meant for you to read them." My mouth crashed into hers in a kiss, smothering the tiny cry of alarm she made as I scooped her into my lap. She returned my kiss eagerly, bringing her hands to rest on my chest. Encouraged, I allowed my hands to graze over her breasts, thinly protected by her nightgown. She flinched at my sudden touch, but I held on to her arms firmly.

"What's wrong?" I asked her, staring intensely into her eyes.

"Nothing," she said breathlessly, trying to avoid my gaze.

I tipped her chin up and she looked into my eyes obediently. "You're thinking about him, aren't you," I accused her, my grip on her arms tightening unconsciously as my irritation mounted.

She didn't answer.

"Vicky," I said slowly and carefully. "I am not him. I will never be him. I am not going to hurt you. I care for you." The lies tumbled out much easier than I ever thought possible, and yet in that moment they felt so much like the truth I almost believed them myself.

"You do?" she asked in a small voice that wavered with emotion.

I didn't answer her directly, but said instead, "Never think about him again when I'm touching you, Vicky."

"Oh James, I won't!" she promised me, wrapping her arms around my neck and spreading grateful kisses over my face. After a moment's hesitation, she took my hand and deliberately placed it on her breast.

I claimed her mouth again, pleased with her response. She kissed me back with equal fire and passion. I wanted her in a way that defied reason. I reached blindly for her knee and swung it over to the other side of my lap so that she straddled me. I needed to feel her closer to me. Her eyes flew open as I grabbed her hips and roughly pulled them flush against mine, but she relaxed again as I bent my head to her throat. She arched into me helplessly as my hands crept up her thighs, pushing the gauzy material of her nightgown higher. She gasped and gripped my shirt tightly in her fists as my fingers found their way to her hot core.

"No one's ever..." she whispered breathlessly, melting at my touch. I smiled at her words and teased her a moment longer, relishing the tiny sounds of pleasure she made for me. Finally I slid my hands higher under her nightgown, up over the smooth plane of her stomach and along the underside of her breasts. She sighed and shifted against me, painfully reminding me of how constrictive my pants had become. I tugged upwards on the fabric and she lifted her arms to accommodate its removal. She looked away self-consciously as I hungrily took in the sight of her naked body before me, her skin hot and flushed with both embarrassment and desire.

"You're so beautiful," I said to reassure her. This wasn't a lie. She was the most intoxicating creature I had ever seen.

"Thank you," she said softly, her red lips parted enticingly. She dragged her hands shyly down the front of my shirt and began to unfasten its buttons.

My heart beat faster as her hands slowly approached the buckle of my belt. This was really happening. I was really going to have her. I caught her shaking hands by the wrists just as they began to work the buckle open. "Do you understand what we're doing, Vicky?" I asked, really hoping for the sake of my waning willpower that she did.

She blushed. "I have some idea," she said, looking back at me with wide eyes. I released her hands and she placed them reverently on my bare shoulders, pushing my shirt down my arms. "It's what you want, isn't it?" she asked cautiously.

_You have no fucking idea._ "Very much so," I said, forcing myself to sound calmer than I felt. I lowered my head to her neck again, unable look her in the eyes. "Is it what you want?" I said, redirecting my attention to trailing kisses along her chest. Her breath escaped her in a sharp hiss as I pulled one of her nipples into my mouth.

"I just want to be yours, James," she said, her voice deep with a longing that seemed to surprise her.

"Lie down," I told her, releasing my hold on her to address the removal of my clothes. She lay back against the pillows, her arms resting calmly above her head in total surrender, her eyes quietly regarding me under dark, heavy lashes. She was so beautiful. I covered her body with my own, and she pulled my face down to hers in a kiss. Though her kiss was steady and urgent, her hands trembled as they clung to my back. She emitted a faint whimper as I brushed my arousal against her entrance.

"Relax," I whispered against her ear, though the pounding of her heart against my chest excited me. "Are you ready?" I asked her, reaching down between us and employing a few well-placed strokes of my thumb to convince her that she was.

She closed her eyes and bravely nodded her assent. She cried out briefly when I pushed into her, but bit her lip to keep quiet. I swallowed a moan of my own as I sank deeper into her tight warmth. I forced myself to move more slowly inside of her than my lust commanded, but the sharp pain of her nails in my back and the groaning of the mattress under us proved oddly gratifying. I muttered all the words she wanted to hear in her trusting ear as I had my fill of her body. She sighed happily into the crook of my neck in return and met my strokes inexpertly, seeking a release she didn't understand. The unexpected wriggle of her hips under mine proved my undoing, and I came inside of her with a choked cry against her eager lips. She held me fast in her arms and kissed me hard.

She was mine to begin with. And now she always would be.

As I gathered my clothes and made ready to leave, I turned back to look at Victoria's face, beautiful and serene in sleep. My heart stirred with regret, and I made the decision then that this would be the last time I ever saw her.

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**Thanks again for reading, and please feel free to leave me any feedback in a review!**


	6. Hunger

**All Twilight characters are the property of Stephenie Meyer.**

**Thank you so much for the warm reception the last chapter got! Your reviews mean a lot to me. I hope you continue to enjoy what I have in store for our darling James and Victoria. A special thanks goes to my beta Seraphine Deesse de la Nuit for helping me weed out this chapter.**

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**Hunger**

_Victoria's POV_

_I sighed and shifted under the sheets, curling my toes happily as I rolled onto my back. The sun glared in through the curtains and I squeezed my eyes shut tighter, willing the harsh light away. _

"_Sleep well?" I heard James ask. I shivered with delight as his lips brushed against my ear._

"_Mmm..." was the only reply I could muster. I reached for him blindly, pulling his body closer to me and inhaling his warm scent of leather and tobacco. He kissed along my jaw without another word, tangling his fingers in my unkempt hair. I parted my legs to him as he moved on top of me, his mouth finally reaching my own. I kissed him back with feeling, grimacing slightly as the prickly whiskers of his mustache tickled my nose._

Wait._ I stopped kissing back. My blood ran cold, my heart hung suspended in my chest. _James didn't have a mustache.

_My eyes flew open and I screamed in horror. It was my_ father _on top of me – not James. I pushed and kicked and screamed for him to release me, but he held me down by my shoulders. _

"_Just lie still, honey, and this won't hurt a bit," he whispered as he forced his mouth upon mine again._

Mercifully, a clap of thunder stirred me to consciousness. I sprang from the bed, my nightgown drenched with sweat, my hair knotted and matted. _It was a dream_, I realized, raising a clammy hand to my face and wondering how I could have imagined something so monstrous. Another flash of lightening startled me, and I whirled around to the window to see a downpour of rain outside. It had been raining steadily for days. _So much for the drought_. I clasped my hands tightly to stop them from trembling.

As the moments passed, my heartbeat slowed, my breathing regulated, and I calmed myself. It was just a dream. Neither James nor my father had been anywhere near me in almost a week.

I walked slowly to my washstand, my bare feet making no sound that could be heard over the arrhythmic patter of rain beating on the roof above me. As I washed my face in the basin, I reflected absently that the soreness between my legs had all but faded. I moved my thighs together slowly, testing. The pain was gone. Unexpectedly, this came as something of a disappointment to me. While it had hurt when James had.... (I could scarcely remember what he had done to me without blushing) ...when he had _had_ me, the lingering ache had served as constant and pleasant reminder of the man himself. My unconscious shiver recalled me to my purpose. My hands rose to my throat and I began idly untying my damp nightgown, still day dreaming about James. Heat coiled in the pit of my stomach as I recalled all the intimate ways he had touched me.

A blush rose in my cheeks as I caught sight of my reflection in the mirror: my hair mussed, eyes dark and hooded, lips parted... As the gown fell open over my shoulders I saw that the blush extended all the way down my throat to the tops of my breasts. I pulled the nightgown over my head, gasping as the thin fabric skimmed over the hardened peaks of my breasts. I stared back at my naked body in the glass in wonder. I touched a freckle on my collarbone. Had that always been there? I marveled at how much longer my hair had grown, how much sharper my nose, how much fuller my hips. When was the last time I'd looked in a mirror? This woman I saw looking back at me looked nothing like the girl I used to be. James thought this woman was beautiful. James made love to this woman. I touched my flushed cheeks softly, marveling at how changed I seemed – at how much James had changed me.

"I miss you, James," I said sadly to myself. This time, a different kind of ache held his place in my heart.

"Victoria?" my stepmother's voice rang out pleasantly from down the hall. Her spirits had been high of late – as had mine – and I warranted my father's departure had something to do with our improvement. While we were far from friends, a burden had been eased from both of our shoulders, and we were gradually easing into something like amity.

"I'm getting dressed," I called back to her, opening my wardrobe and selecting my undergarments.

"Make haste, my dear," she said from the other side of my door. I half-smiled with surprise at her uncharacteristic show of affection. "We have callers!" she informed me gleefully.

Well this was certainly unexpected. Usually callers only cared to visit with my father, and since he'd been absent hardly anyone besides our employees came to the house.

"I'm hurrying, mother," I replied, peeling a dress at random from its hanger and throwing it over my head. As quickly as I could I fastened my buttons and arranged my hair. I dabbed perfume onto my wrists and threw one last glance at the mirror. The woman inside it smiled cautiously back at me.

"You look very pretty today," my stepmother remarked when I opened the door.

I tried not to take offense at the hint of surprise in her voice. "Thank you. As do you, mother," I added unnecessarily. She was already well aware of her beauty: a plain woman does not make the jump from governess to rich man's wife without the aid of any endearing emotions between the pair. In honor of our unexpected callers she was wearing stays under her dress, amazingly rendering her bust line even more pronounced.

"Be on your best behavior," she warned me, momentarily reverting to her customary tone of disapproval. I nodded my compliance, and together we made our way down the stairs and into the parlor.

Three well-dressed gentleman rose at our arrival. The tallest man removed his bowler hat and stepped forward with a charming smile. I took one look at his face and discovered that this man was the most handsome creature I had ever seen. His skin was the palest of olive, his nose straight and refined; his dark hair fell rakishly into eyes that were as black as obsidian and heavily lined with full lashes. His waistcoat fit his lean form precisely with nary a wrinkle, and though his freshly starched shirt was slightly dated, it was of the highest quality. When he moved across the room to meet us, he stepped with all the grace and presence of royalty.

"You must be Mrs. Childress," he said silkily. He spoke with a slight accent I couldn't immediately identify. He took my stepmother's hand without asking and pressed a light kiss to it.

My stepmother blushed and simpered as he lips brushed the back of her hand, tripping over her words in her embarrassment, "W-why yes I am. And you are...?" she tore her gaze away from his handsome face and glanced at the other two men briefly.

I looked at the other men, too. Though not quite as handsome as the man before us, they were also remarkably attractive – in their own way. There was a pale, older gentleman with sandy hair worn longer than was currently in fashion. Beside him stood a thin, rangy man with gaunt, exotic features and hawk eyes that were boring into me in such a brazen manner as made me uncomfortable. Unlike the other two men who wore suits, this man was dressed in buckskin and boots. Despite his admittedly _odd_ appearance, there was something alluring about him, as well.

The man before us smiled again. "My name is Laurent. This is my associate, Charles..." he indicated the older man, who bowed slightly. "And that's Randall," he added flatly with a dismissive gesture at the gaunt man.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance," Charles said with a thick German accent and a wooden nod.

Randall just stared at me.

My stepmother seemed to be at a loss for oxygen and words. She half-turned to me and raised her arm as if to introduce me, but failed to produce any intelligible sentiments. Finally, to save her further embarrassment, I spoke up. "My name is Victoria," I informed the gentlemen, trying not to look any of them in the eye.

Laurent bowed solemnly from the waist. "_Enchanteé_, _mademoiselle._" He reached for my hand and I didn't dare refuse him. As he brought my fingers to his lips, a serene expression crossed his face and he closed his eyes as if savoring something. "Mmm... what a tantalizing aroma you have, Miss Childress. It is roses, I think?"

Where his lips touched mine my skin turned to ice. I stuttered what I thought was an affirmation to his question, though it might have come off as a whimper.

"You are French, Mr. ....Laurent?" My stepmother asked breathlessly, anxious to have his attentions returned to her person.

Laurent begrudgingly relinquished my captive hand and turned back to her. "_Oui_, _madam_, but I am long accustomed to speaking your language. And please, just call me 'Laurent'," he added magnanimously.

My stepmother blushed again and mumbled an invitation for the group of us to sit. All of us were seated but Randall, who moved to stand by the window. As we spoke he stood still as a statue, watching the progress of the raging storm through the rain-spattered glass.

"So, to what do we owe this unexpected pleasure? As I'm sure you're aware, my husband is away at present on business," my stepmother said, putting on her most coquettish of smiles.

Laurent looked sideways at Charles, who nodded solemnly.

"We are here about the advertisement you placed in the local circular, of course," Laurent said amiably, pulling the pertinent section of the newspaper from his waistcoat pocket. "We are new to this area and seek employment."

I'm sure my stepmother was as confused as I was by this statement. Why would such finely dressed gentlemen be seeking a lowly-paid position for manual labor? I became suspicious.

"I'm afraid there's been some mistake..." she said with a nervous laugh. "You don't mean that you are applying to repair our barn, do you?" She looked doubtfully at Laurent's well-manicured hands.

"I assure you we are experienced – and very hard workers," Laurent said smoothly, pulling out another piece of paper from his pocket. "Here are our references from our last employer."

My stepmother blinked in astonishment as he rattled off the qualifications he and the other men shared, but she pretended to take a look at the page he produced all the same. I craned my neck to see if I could read any of the names scribbled on the page, but my mother held the sheet at such an angle that I could not.

"Everything appears to be in order," my stepmother lied, setting the page on the table beside her and hopelessly beyond my line of sight.

Charles covered what might have been a snort of amusement with a cough and Laurent grinned broadly. "Excellent! We may begin whenever you wish. Are the hours that we work of any concern to you?"

She blinked again. "What do you mean?"

"As we are new in town, we would prefer to spend the daylight hours seeking accommodation and attending to other matters of business. So, if it makes no difference to you, we would prefer to do our work for you in the evenings," he said.

It took a moment for this information to sink into my stepmother's addled brain. "Oh! Well accommodations are no problem. You are more than welcome to stay in the bunkhouse here at the ranch," she told them with genuine enthusiasm. "With most of the workmen gone there's plenty of room."

My stomach revolted at the idea of one of these men sleeping in James' bunk.

Laurent bowed politely. "Thank you, _madam_, but there are ladies in our party who would much prefer we resided with them in town."

"Ladies?" she asked with a falsely cheery tone. I could almost hear her crumbling.

"Yes, we are accompanied by Charles' wife Makenna and Randall's... Mary," Laurent explained, before adding in a conspiratorial undertone, "I, on the other hand, am burdened with no such attachments."

My stepmother immediately brightened. "Well then! It's all settled! You may begin whenever you are ready..." she began. She then went on to describe the details the job entailed, and they responded with informed questions that seemed to verify their claims to experience in carpentry and construction.

"If you have no more questions about the job, may we offer you any tea or coffee? And perhaps a more pleasant turn of conversation?" she asked, raising her finger elegantly to signal a servant.

"_Quel dommage!_ I regret to decline your hospitality, _madam_, but we are already engaged to luncheon with the ladies. They would be most put out if we were to spoil our appetites," Laurent said with a sly look to Randall at the window.

Randall smiled back at him – a ferocious, toothy grin that both frightened and thrilled me. "I don't think they'd mind if we had something to whet our appetites while we wait," he said, flicking a casual glance over to me before turning back to Laurent.

"On the contrary, I think they would mind very much," Laurent replied dismissively.

"They would," Charles agreed, shooting a warning glare at Randall.

Randall shrugged. "Then maybe I'd better wait outside," he said, and before my stepmother could even digest the scene before her and protest his departure, he had left the room.

Before long, my stepmother and Laurent were chattering along – occasionally (and somewhat to my embarrassment) in my stepmother's rusty schoolroom French – as if they were at a soiree in some European _salon_, and not in this rustic country abode. Charles closed his eyes momentarily and seemed to sleep, but occasionally he would smile slightly to himself at some private joke. I, meanwhile, lamented the absence of the tea.

As the conversation droned on around me, I escaped into my own thoughts. There was something very strange about these men, but whatever bothered me was nothing I could put into words. They were, with the exception of Randall, very polite and well-mannered. Yes, it was exceedingly unusual that apparent gentlemen should be seeking such employment as repairing our barn, but maybe they had fallen on hard times as of a late? Appearances were notoriously unreliable. Were the men trustworthy? I began to feel increasingly uneasy the further forward Laurent and my stepmother leaned towards one another. Was he a swindler or a thief here to take advantage of two seemingly unprotected ladies? It certainly wouldn't be unheard of. But then perhaps Laurent was just a womanizer in addition to being hard up for money. There were countless possibilities, but I found that I did not care for a one of them. I began to wish they would leave – and that James were here to put my mind at ease.

Eventually, Laurent and Charles stood, begging their leave to rejoin Randall and their yet unseen ladies. My stepmother and I stood, bowed, and bade them to return to visit whenever they so desired (though I doubt my invitation was as sincere as my stepmother's). As the men bowed and left the room, I gasped with a sudden realization. Though it poured rain outside, the men had left not even a speck of mud on my stepmother's favored rug.

"_Mother!_" I whispered harshly when the men were well clear of the house.

"Hmm?" she asked, unwillingly pulling herself from her dreamy haze.

"The rug!" I pointed.

She followed my line of sight and frowned. "What about the rug?"

"They didn't track any mud in!" I said, becoming irritated with her obtuseness.

"For heaven's sake, Victoria, only _you_ could find fault in someone not tracking mud on a rug. You really are a lot more like your father than I give you credit for," she said, shaking her head.

I crossed my arms and gave her my most serious look. "Mother, the mud must be ankle deep outside after all of this rain. How is it that even _you_ – the most fastidious of us all – cannot help but track in a _little_ dirt whenever you come in from out of doors, but these men didn't? Don't you think it at all odd?"

She frowned again and considered my line of reason. She was an intelligent woman, but unfortunately her mind was already prejudiced in favor of the men. "You're being ridiculous, Victoria," she said. "I'm sorry you don't like the men, but they're the only ones who've so much as asked about the barn repair job. We don't really have a lot of choice here. What would you have me do? Turn out three willing workers just because their standard of cleanliness exceeds our own? If your father comes back and the barn is still in pieces he'll have a fit and you know it. No, the men are hired and that's my final decision."

Frustrated, I picked up the sheet of paper that Laurent had handed my stepmother containing their references. I scanned over it quickly until one name caught my eye. I held up the paper triumphantly. "There, you see? Their last known employer was _Vincente Delgado_. This has to be fake – or even worse, accurate. You know Delgado and father hate each other! This must be a trick of some kind."

My stepmother narrowed her eyes at me, trying to diagnose exactly which mental ailment had stricken me. After a moment her face relaxed and she even looked a little amused. "Oh, I see what this is, Victoria."

I could hardly begin to imagine what on earth it was she was seeing, because it certainly wasn't the truth. "What this is?" I prompted wearily.

"Yes. And it's perfectly natural for you to be frightened or intimidated about it, but believe me it's high time."

It was my turn to suspect her of insanity. "What are you talking about?"

"Victoria, it's obvious that you were flattered by the attention of that man. I know your notion of men can't be... the best," she said, sighing deeply, "...but you have to understand that not all men are like your..." She shut her mouth suddenly and took up a new train of thought: "I think you would be much happier if you were to get married."

I sank back onto the sofa, visibly rattled by her declaration. _Married?_ I searched within myself for any kind of reaction to this suggestion. What I found startled me. Would I like to be forever bound to one man, wholly cleaved to his side, to belong to him entirely and irrevocably...? I fantasized about such a life with James. _Yes_, I realized. _I would like that very much_.

"I think so, too," I said, sounding surprised myself at how readily I agreed with my stepmother.

She appeared relieved. She sat down next to me and put a (supposedly) comforting arm around me. "I know things have been hard for you..." she began cautiously.

"Do you?" I snapped, a decision I instantly regretted my when I felt her hold around me stiffen with affront. "I'm sorry, mother, I did not mean to interrupt you," I said, coaxing her to continue.

"As I was saying," she said, clearing her throat by way of a reprimand for my outburst, "I know that you have not had the easiest time – that _we_ have not had the easiest relationship – but please know that I do not wish you harm. I think you and I both know that we might best get along if we lived apart," she said before adding cryptically, "...in addition to any other cause you might have for wishing to be away from home."

Why must she be so vague, even when she is professing to be open with me? Why cannot we speak as other mothers and daughters do? _Is she even aware of how I suffer?_ I thought miserably.

"I would like to be married," I assured her. "But I am not sure that I would like to be married to the gentlemen we met today..." Did I dare mention my preference for James? Could she be trusted?

She smiled in approval and gave me a quick squeeze. "I'm glad to hear that, but I think you should give the man another chance. Perhaps the next time the gentlemen come to call you could put forth a better effort to entice him? Honestly, Victoria, you spent the entire morning sulking."

I bitterly thought that perhaps I would have joined the conversation had she taken even a moment to come up for air from her shameless flirtation. "I'm sorry to disappoint you," I said through gritted teeth, "but I do not care for Laurent."

"You don't?" she asked. She looked at me as if I had just insinuated that the moon was composed of cheese and crackers.

"No," I repeated firmly.

"Hmm, well, we shall see. Your _beau_ or not, he will make a charming addition to our regular society," she said with a secret smile.

I most _certainly_ did not like the looks of that smile, but before I could offer anything in the way of a retort, one of our servants came bursting into the parlor, upsetting a side table and a vase in her haste.

"Mrs. Childress! Mrs. Childress!" the maid cried, wringing her hands in an obvious state of distress. All the color had left the woman's lips, and her eyes were wide and strained.

"Whatever is the matter, Louisa?" my stepmother asked, clearly put out by the maid's ungainly entrance but genuinely concerned as to what could have instigated it.

"It's one of the yard boys – the blacksmith's son!" she panted, tears now streaming down her plump face.

"What happened to him?" I asked softly, moved by the woman's emotional display to place a hand on her shaking shoulder.

"I just opened the cellar door... t-to go down for some more coffee," she wailed, "..and I found him just lyin' there – his eyes all wide and his face the most _terrible _shade of white..."

"Is he hurt, Louisa? Should we call for the doctor?" my stepmother asked, urging the woman to make her point.

The next words out of the woman's mouth would haunt me for many nights to come.

"No, ma'am, it won't do no good. He's dead."

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**Thoughts? Complaints? Predictions? I'd love to hear from you, dear reader!**


	7. Lost

**All Twilight characters are the property of Stephenie Meyer.**

**Dear awesome readers – as you may have read on my profile I am out of town for the month of June. I appreciate your patience with this update, which is several weeks overdue. I promise July's updates will be posted in a more timely manner. Thank you for all your kind words of encouragement and your thoughtful input!  
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**Lost**

_James' POV_

Donald Childress held up his hand to signal a stop ahead, his face red and damp from the mild exertion that must undoubtedly be pure misery for his aging body. Across the wide line of cattle Kittredge gave a nod and threw a sharp whistle in Terrell's direction. The young man started, nearly falling out of the saddle he'd been sagging in for the past few hours. The kid didn't sleep well on the road – spooked too easy. The pair of them spurred their horses and rode around to the front of the line, where they started to lead the cattle back around so that the line doubled on itself and came to a complete stop. The cows, mercifully unquestioning, fell into grazing the scant grass that managed to grow at this altitude, picking their way carefully over the uneven ground and chewing thoughtfully as they took in their new surroundings. From our vantage point in this valley, the snowy peaks of the Sierra Nevada that had once served as distant points of reference were now very real elements in the immediate landscape. As we made our way higher, the trees became shorter and sparser, the ground less forgiving to hooves and feet alike. Already the grass was preparing its yearly death, and we all hoped that the cows would not be put off from it. It had been three days since we left the Siskiyou Trail, and there would be no opportunity for fresh supplies until we came down from the mountains and rejoined the Trail.

Allow me to explain. The road from Shasta to San Francisco, named the Siskiyou Trail, is quite straightforward. Years of heavy traffic have rendered it wide enough and suitably level for a herd to be led, and it is still traversed often enough by travelers and traders for several supply posts to have sprung up along the way. Beyond Childress' unwillingness to the pay the new toll to use this road, he was also nervous of the substantial amount of law enforcement that often patrolled it – a risk he couldn't take with the forged brands so fresh on many of our cattle's hides. So there we were in the middle of the Sierra Nevada, with not much more than a compass and an out-of-date map for our guides.

Kittredge and Terrell made their way back to the end of the line, where McClellan, O'Morris, and I were moving forward as slow as we dared, trailing some of the unsaddled spare horses behind our own mounts to conserve their energy. The horses fidgeted and worried their bits, impatient at the slow pace. Even if the terrain had been more accommodating, the herd mustn't be rushed along, lest they lose some of the girth that made them so valuable. As it was, we restricted their travel to one or two dozen miles a day, with plenty of stops for refueling and taking in the local color.

"Water," Childress barked hoarsely, looking first at Cook, who was leading his chuck wagon towards us as fast as the ruts in the long unused trail would allow his wheels, and then at Silas Black, who nodded and took his horse off at a trot. He rode ahead of us to search out some body of water that might support our herd's insatiable thirst. Kittredge and Terrell circled back to join us, and all of us dismounted and surrendered our horses to them for safekeeping while we took the opportunity to stretch our sore muscles.

"Looks like a might like snow," McClellan predicted, craning his neck backwards to take in the entire sky.

"It better not," Kittredge muttered, as if the weather could be bullied into compliance. Terrell nodded in agreement and pulled his jacket around himself tighter.

By and by, Cook reached us, pausing to blow his swollen nose into a handkerchief. The increasing bite of chill in the thin air affected him the most, since he had not the benefit of exercise to warm him during the ride. "Want me to pitch camp, Boss?" he asked nasally, pulling one of his feet into his lap to rub the chilblains that were already forming.

Childress, still mounted, pulled a compass from his pocket. He squinted at it and looked up at our surroundings uncertainly before declaring that we might still make a piece more distance before sundown if it meant bringing us closer to water. I snorted with disbelief and heard O'Morris swear under his breath beside me. We both suspected – as I thought most of us did to some degree – that Childress was stalling for time before he eventually admitted what we all knew to be the truth: we were lost.

Cook's face fell at Childress' order, but he slid down from his seat and hobbled to the back of the wagon on numb feet to fetch the drinking water. As he did, Childress twisted awkwardly in his saddle and tried to pull his leg over the horn and dismount. No doubt the long hours of riding had prevented circulation, for the limb was as stiff and useless now as any paralytic's. He gave a series of grunts and heaves until finally the limb gave way to his efforts. The sudden force knocked him off his balance, and he nearly fell full on his ass before he managed to grip the saddle with his thick, tobacco-stained fingers.

McClellan ran forward to aid him, but he was quickly swatted away with a curse. O'Morris stifled a grin, but I didn't bother restraining my amusement – I laughed outright. Once Childress regained his balance he turned an evil eye to me.

"Did you say something, Wilder?" His threatening tone might have carried more meaning had it not been delivered through a wheeze. McClellan, for his part, looked the other way.

I smiled at him, sincere in my pleasure, as only a man with the knowledge that he has fucked the other man's daughter can. "I said I need to take a piss," I answered him pleasantly, but my mind was already wandering over the memories of Victoria's naked curves under my hands, her pliant mouth against my own…

He might have retorted and I might have daydreamed myself into a rather uncomfortable position, but at that moment we could see Black returning from his reconnaissance errand, waving a signaling hand to us. He'd found a stream, he informed us breathily, that looked to be about a mile across the valley. If we started now we could make it before dark.

Childress looked up at the sun, still fairly high in the sky. "Let's get a move on," he said.

We returned to our mounts as quick as we could and rushed the herd, shouting and hollering and slapping any flanks that stayed stubbornly put, driving them in the direction that Black led us.

The sun was hanging low in the sky as we reached the other side of the valley. Once the cattle smelled the stream there was no longer a need for us to drive them, and we settled back to supervise them as they stomped and pawed through the water, muddying it beyond recognition with their filth.

"Oh Christ, fellas, couldn't you have let me fill the tankard first?" Cook asked with dismay.

Childress agreed. "Terrell, O'Morris," he called, "Go upstream and fill the tankard."

Terrell, who had been using our slowed pace as an opportunity to roll a cigarette, dropped everything and sprang to attention with a resounding "Yessir!". O'Morris rolled his eyes, but followed after Terrell.

Seeing his assistant already assigned another task, Kittredge begrudgingly turned to McClellan. "Gimme a hand with the horses, if you would, Ernie."

McClellan, surprised that any of us were still on speaking terms with him, agreed. Black and I were left to help Cook unload his wagon and help set up camp.

"Wilder," Cook said to me in an undertone as I was handing packages from the wagon down to Black on the ground.

"Yes?" I asked, with no small measure of irritation.

"Can I talk to you about something for a moment?" he all but whispered.

I stopped handing packages down and sat back to look at him. "What is it?" I asked warily. I had no patience for either small gossip or conspiracies, and this conversation was sure to be one or the other. If Black was listening, he made no outward sign, though he did take care to set the packages down with considerably less force.

Cook looked over his shoulder and only turned back to me once he was assured that Childress' attentions were directed elsewhere. "Seeing as how this unexpected… detour… has placed us out of the way of easy restocking, I'm beginning to worry about how much food we have left."

I followed his gaze to the dwindling sacks of grain and salt pork. "And what exactly do you want me to do about it?"

"You seem to like hunting. Do you think you could find anything out here?" he asked, gesturing to the mountains.

"That depends – can you make anything out of dirt and rocks?"

"Oh come on, Wilder, I ain't messing around here. It's going to be you and me starving just as much as Childress and you know it."

I looked doubtfully at Cook's paunch, but declined further comment on it. "Do you need it tonight?" I asked instead.

"No, but if we wait until tomorrow there may be even less pickings to be had."

I must have hesitated, because he added, "At any rate it will get you away from Childress for the evening."

I conceded his logic.

"I'll go with you," Black offered softly as I leaped down from the wagon.

"Are you sure?" I asked him slyly. "You may not like how I am when I'm on the hunt."

"I don't like how you are normally," he spat back and grabbed a rifle from the wagon.

We slipped away without arousing any suspicion from the rest of the group, which was easy enough since they were all occupied with helping Terrell put out the fire he had inadvertently set on his pants as he tried to light yet another cigarette on too little sleep. Black and I moved into the trees easily and dusk enveloped us like a tender embrace, the cool air whispering across our heated skin in welcome and in warming. An alien forest at night and in near winter promised hardship and danger. But I was dangerous, too.

"I saw a game trail by the head of the stream," Black whispered to me when I paused to investigate a foot print on the ground.

I cut him off with a glare, the venom in my eyes warning him against further conversation. Hunters do not speak. They act. He nodded and cautiously fell in behind me as I crept along the forest floor, my ears attuned to any betraying sound. The anticipation of death buzzed around me in a familiar way, the mere cracking of a twig setting all my nerves alive with excitement. _This is what I am_, I thought as the rifle grew slick beneath my fingers from my own frenzied perspiration. _A hunter._ Beside me, Black's face was the picture of calm, but I could tell that he, too, was looking forward to this with no small amount of enthusiasm. We reached the stream and I soon saw the game trail that Black had found. I gave him a nod, which he returned, and we both settled into a crouch along the stream, intent on waiting for the animals to come out for their evening drink.

A few moments' patience was rewarded by the sudden emergence of a figure from the tree line. It had appeared silently, and still made no noise. I raised my weapon in an instant, only to be disappointed by the realization that this was a man approaching us and not prey. All the same, caution would be prudent. Black and I stood up at once, weapons at the ready.

"Halt," Black called, taking care to remain mostly hidden behind a pine. "Who's there?"

"I don't know if I should answer that question," the stranger answered in a melodious voice that hinted strongly at amusement. The man stepped into the fading light, his face mostly concealed by the leather hat he wore low on his forehead. "Is this a stick up?"

His strange answer gave me a moment's pause, but Black held his weapon high and resolute. "Show us your hands," he demanded.

The stranger held his hands aloft, and I noticed they were clad in sturdy falconer's gloves. A sack he had been holding fell to the ground and came open. It smelled distinctly of fresh blood and guts. "I'm more than willing to share," he remarked, noticing my attention on the bag. "Mountain hare. I stumbled upon a warren already gone to bed for winter. Now they're gone to bed for good." He laughed then, an eerie twisted sound that made me uneasy.

"What are you doing out here?" I asked, willing my question to sound authoritative and not curious. As far as I had been aware, we were miles from anything resembling civilization and this man didn't appear to be carrying any equipment that would indicate he was on his way anywhere.

"I live here," he said, shrugging innocently with his gloved hands still raised in the air. He lifted his face then, the last spark of daylight flashing suddenly across his features and allowing me a glimpse. His face was rugged, but handsomely built. Though his dark hair and olive complexion struck me as foreign, his skin was yet paler than mine. He made a small gesture with his hand to the area behind us. "Up yonder over that ridge." He smiled then, and his smile was as dazzling as it was terrifying. "You're trespassing."

Black lowered his weapon, dumbstruck. "We're sorry," he mumbled. "We didn't know anyone lived out here."

The man shrugged and lowered his hands as Black let his rifle fall to his side. "It's no bother to me as long as you're only passing through. I take it you two aren't here alone?" Here he flicked his gaze to me, and I couldn't help but stare back into his eyes, which glowed like dull embers in the now nearly complete darkness.

"No," I found myself volunteering (much to my bewilderment), "We're driving a herd through the mountains back about a mile that way. Eight of us men – and about a thousand head of beef cattle." When the words left my mouth I wondered that I had even spoken them aloud, so unusual had it been. Suddenly, my head felt foggy. _What was wrong with me?_ I chalked it up to too much sun and too little water.

The man nodded as if his suspicions had been confirmed. "Sounds like you overshot the only usable pass by about ten miles, cowboy," he said with a derisive little laugh that made me shudder.

"Can you tell us how to reach it?" Black asked, relieved that we could cease our wandering now and get the drive back on schedule.

"Sure thing. Maybe I should speak with your master about it?"

_Master?_ _What the hell century is this guy from?_ I looked him over appraisingly and found nothing to indicate that this man was anything but some mountain man gone slightly funny from isolation. My nerves were still keenly on end from the excitement of the hunt and my appetite for killing something remained unquenched. _Just give me a reason, buddy_, I thought murderously, fingering the trigger of my rifle as I did.

Oblivious to my internal turmoil, Black nodded. "Of course. Follow us. We're setting up in the meadow."

Black turned back towards camp and the stranger followed. I walked behind them, suspicious.

"Better get in front of me, cowboy," the man drawled over his shoulder when he noticed my hesitation. "There are monsters in these woods."

Of that I had no doubt. The question remained as to which monster among us was the most formidable.

We escorted him back to Childress just as the sky was blackening to a pitch. The men had arranged several campfires around the chuck wagon, and Cook was already at work on something over one of them. His eyes lit up when he saw us returning, but his expression dissolved into faint puzzlement when he realized we had company. The rest of the men looked up from their bedrolls (where they had been playing some game with dice) and regarded the newcomer with curiosity.

"Childress," Black said, reaching our boss and presenting our stranger to him. "This man is a local. He says he can lead us to the pass." I noticed that Black carefully avoided saying "_back_ to the pass".

Childress looked up at the man and rightfully distrusted him. "And just who the hell are you?"

"I am Benito," our stranger said, sweeping off his hat and removing one glove to shake Childress' hand. He pronounced his name with a certain foreign lilt that was absent from the rest of his speech. I wondered where he was from. "I've lived here for quite some time. I'm very familiar with the territory," he continued, attempting to assuage our doubts.

"Donald Childress," our boss said after a moment, shaking the man's hand and apparently deciding to trust him. "Please, sit down."

Before sitting, Benito turned to Cook at the spit and handed him the bag of dead hares. "A gift," he explained. Cook blinked, looked inside the bag, and was delighted. He took the bag back to the chuck wagon with unusual alacrity.

Childress noticed our rapt attention on Benito and promptly put an end to any hopes we might have harbored of eavesdropping. "Wilder, bring our guest something to drink," he said, and then added as an afterthought: "And then go find fuck all to do elsewhere."

I entertained several fantasies of knifing the old bastard, but settled instead for stomping off to fetch a drink, despite the stranger's protests that such an act of hospitality was unnecessary. As I handed the man a tin cup of cold coffee, my fingers inadvertently brushed against those of his ungloved hand. I had the sudden sensation of ice were melting down my spine, and I shivered. I looked up at him with surprise and backed away slightly. He registered my surprise, but made no comment beyond a mumbled thanks.

Shaken, I walked away and slumped down at the campfire farthest away from the odd man. My brain was pulsing with some kind of horrible knowledge that I couldn't decipher and suddenly Victoria's unintentional love letter was burning a hole in my pocket. I needed something to settle my nerves. A smoke – or a drink. I really wished that I had gotten the chance to kill something.

"What do you make of him?" Black asked me, and I knew he wasn't asking for my opinion on Childress' character.

I gave the question some thought before answering: "I don't trust him at all, but if he can get us the hell out of these mountains I don't think we have any choice."

O'Morris heard us talking and came over. "Who the hell is that?" he asked in a low voice, "And what were y'all doing out in the woods together anyway?"

"Fuck off, O'Morris," I said, too tired to deal with him at the moment.

O'Morris drew himself up indignantly, "Well _excuse me_, Jim. Don't let me interrupt your date with Chief Finds-Us-Water over here." He started to leave.

"Wait," I said on second thought, "You got any whiskey?"

"Fuck you."

"I'll pay you," I said, digging through my pack for some money.

He thought about that for a moment. "How much?"

I held up some money, which he took before throwing a jar of whiskey at me and storming off. I caught it and set it aside, electing to pursue my other vice first.

"You aren't like the others, are you?" Black observed as he stoked the fire before us. He leaned back on his heels and wiped his brow, which was dripping with sweat despite the frigid air beyond the fire's heat.

I allowed myself a wry smile, half-concealed by the rolling paper I was licking to a seal in my hands. "What makes you say that?" I asked with genuine interest. I leaned forward and lit my cigarette on one of the fire's outlying flames. I took a pull from the finished product and felt a little thrill as the smoke from the fire and the tobacco burned in tandem down my throat and pooled in my lungs.

"Maybe they're too stupid to see it, Wilder, but I'm not. You may wear the same clothes and adopt the same manners as these apes, but you're a gentleman's son, aren't you?"

"I never said I wasn't," I answered him cryptically. "I am what I am, whether I decide to advertise it or not."

"Where do you come from?" he asked, relentless.

I sighed with annoyance and settled back against my pack, pushing off my boots with my heels and offering the soles of my sore feet to the heat of the fire. "Back East."

Black was silent for a moment as he rolled his own cigarette. "You're from Boston, aren't you?"

I didn't answer him at first, stunned as I was. "How do you know that?"

It was his turn to smile, proud of himself for unnerving me. "When you study English as a second language, you pick up on things that its natives never learn. Your accent is subtle, but it's there."

"Congratulations," I grumbled, wishing he would leave me alone to enjoy my cigarette in peace. "Are you going to read my palm next?"

He laughed and offered me the jar of whiskey O'Morris had tossed me. "Have enough of this and you'll tell me everything I want to know."

I rolled my eyes, but accepted the jar and took a deep, bracing gulp.

"What's your grudge with Childress?" he asked.

"Jesus Christ, is this a goddamn interrogation?" I snarled, setting down the jar, which was lighter by half for my attention. I did not like where this conversation was going.

"The rest of us hate him for cheating and lying to us. But I get the feeling it isn't just his greed that you hate him for."

Images of Victoria hiding in my bunk, bruised and scared, sprang to mind. "Well you can tell your _feeling_ to mind its own damn business," I shot back, reaching for my boots and preparing to stand.

He straightened, unwilling to let me leave. He changed tactics and steered the conversation to a new subject. "Thank you for believing me, by the way."

"Excuse me?" I asked, my foot halfway into my boot.

"Last week with the cows," he said, before lowering his voice and adding, "About the Cold Ones."

I felt an unwelcome chill slither down my spine at his words. Was he having the same suspicions about our new guest as I was? I sank back against my pack again, eyeing him carefully. "Do you still believe that's what it was?"

"Yes," he said grimly.

I looked over my shoulder to ensure that no one else was in earshot. My eyes rested on Benito across the way, indulgently submitting to a barrage of Childress' questions about our route for the next day. The distant firelight flickered oddly over his features, catching unusual angles and creating deceptive shadows. The light rendered his face a fluid mask of terrible, monstrous things. It was impossible, yet the truth of the legend was staring me right in the face. "What else can you tell me about vampires?"

"It depends on what you want to know. I can only pass on what I've heard from my people. I've never encountered one myself. I know they don't like going out in sunlight..."

I cut him off with the question uppermost in my mind: "Can they be killed?"

It might have been my imagination, but I thought I saw Benito smile.

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	8. Captive

**All Twilight characters are the property of Stephenie Meyer.**

**So good to be home and back at work on my favorite story! Thanks again for your reviews and support. I'm told by the lovely KCerena that she has submitted a review of this story to The Little-Known Ficster, which should be posted any day now! Check back on my profile for the link :)**

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**Captive**

_Victoria's POV_

Some other year the barn raising might have been a joyous occasion. In some other town the very feat of its construction might have been cause enough for celebration. The framing work had been completed in the astoundingly short span of one week, and all that remained to be done was the raising of the outer walls, freshly painted a brilliant red. Normally such an event would be abuzz with anticipation and celebration, but the death of the blacksmith's boy last week compounded with the recent disappearance of the baker's wife had set the town on edge. The boy's death had been attributed to some rare blood disorder (likely as a result of the physician's own bafflement). The woman's disappearance was reckoned to have been prompted by hysteria. (My stepmother suspected the woman had eloped with a lover, but I imagine she was influenced more by her own sordid experience with marriage rather than by any actual infidelity on the part of the baker's wife). I don't believe anyone fully accepted these explanations, but with no more credible alternative, they were the official stories repeated amongst the townspeople.

I came to my own conclusions, but did not expect to find an ally in them. No one but me suspected aught but good intentions beneath the beauty and charm of the new workmen my stepmother had hired, and I doubt anyone would share my belief that something evil was at work in Canyon Ridge. The townspeople did not know about the unnatural deaths of the cows in the weeks before, and while my stepmother knew of the deaths, she had not heard what Silas Black suspected had caused them. But I had seen the body of the poor little blacksmith's son, unnaturally splayed at the bottom of the cellar stairs and hastily covered with a sheet of burlap. I had seen the fear frozen into his lifeless eyes, the pallid skin of his cheeks and lips that had been flush with life mere minutes before. And I had seen the two puncture wounds at the base of his young throat. I do not consider myself a great believer in the supernatural, but I believed then. Vampires killed that boy, and I had some idea as to their identities.

The past week had flown me by in a blur of apprehension and anxiety. In addition to apprehension for my own safety, I feared for James. We had yet to hear any word from my father or his men. Upon his safe arrival in San Francisco, my father was supposed to have sent a wire to his accountant in Shasta, who in turn had been instructed to pass along a message to us. We had, as of yet, received no such message, even though by the itinerary my father left us he ought to have reached San Francisco two days ago. I was beginning to fear the worst, as irrational as it was. Of course the colder weather would restrict their pace. Of course the days were running shorter as winter approached. All these things I told myself, and yet I worried myself sick with longing. James had been gone from me for weeks, and while I was relieved to be free of my father's abuse, I would almost rather suffer _him_ than another day without James in my life.

My stepmother showed no symptom of grief, if she harbored any. She spent the bulk of her time preparing for today's barn raising party: arranging expensive decorations, buying exotic food and drink, even hiring a band of musicians. As the first party she would have the opportunity to host in Canyon Ridge, she was determined that it should be a triumph – a shining beacon of sophistication in this rustic cow country wilderness. All this she did without regard to the fact that the party's true host and financier – namely, my father – would most certainly not be back in time to enjoy it.

In truth, I cannot say I blamed her for not outwardly missing my father; I knew she did not love him. However, I wish that she could have been more sensitive to my own distress during my father's absence. The handsome Laurent had come to the house nearly every night since his arrival a week prior, ostensibly to pay call upon me. For all his charms, the man terrified me. My every instinct warned me against him. The mere sound of his name announced at the foot of the stairs was enough to send me scrambling out of my bedroom window and into the empty bunkhouse, where I would hide in James' cold bunk until morning. Every night I fell asleep in the faint scent of James that lingered still on his pillow, now regularly dampened with my tears. And every morning I faced the harsh displeasure of my stepmother.

"You were gone again last night," she remarked as I took my seat at the breakfast table this morning. If only I could go without eating so that I could avoid her!

"I went for a walk," I replied, calmly buttering my toast as if I had every right in the world to go for a whimsical stroll in the evening.

"You were gone all night," she shot back. "Laurent came to call on you with his friend Charles and his wife Makenna. She was quite a charming woman and she was very sorry to have missed you." I had seen Charles' small, dark-haired wife in town before, and I doubted very much that her haunted, sunken eyes boasted of any such qualities that could be termed "charming."

"I'm sure _you_ did not mind my absence," I snapped back, too weary from worry and fatigue to attempt tact. I imagined my stepmother rather enjoyed having Laurent's attentions all to herself, if her increased use of cosmetics and perfume did not deceive me.

My stepmother set down her teacup forcefully and regarded me with an icy glare. "Victoria," she said, keeping her anger secured under a steady, even tone. "You remember our talk of finding you a husband."

I let my toast fall onto my plate and returned her glare. "Laurent is not the only man in the world, mother," I said. _If Laurent can even be considered a man_, I thought with a shudder. "In fact, I think I would prefer to marry someone else."

"Who else would you prefer?" she demanded, her suspicion rising. "Is there another man, Victoria? Is _that_ where you've been running been running off every night?"

I knew I had misstepped, and that if I did not choose my next words with the most delicate of care my father would hear of this. And his punishment would be severe.

"There is no one else," I answered, color rising to my cheeks as even then I pictured James clearly in my mind. "I meant to say that I would prefer to marry _anyone_ else."

"You listen to me," she hissed, reaching across the table and encircling my wrist in her bony grasp. "You don't have anyone else. You have Laurent. And if I don't see you making an effort to return his attentions this evening at the party, I'll make sure you lead a very long and lonely life _under your father's care_," she said, knowing that I would register her full meaning. She softened her tone and added after a moment, "I'm trying to help you, Victoria, and I'd appreciate it if you made this easier on everyone."

"I know you're trying to help," I said softly, trying not to cry aloud at her crushing grip on my hand. "I'll try. I swear." At least Laurent would likely kill me far sooner than my father ever would, and he would probably spare me the humiliation of telling me he loved me as he did it.

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As the sunlight began to fade, the paper lanterns and colored streamers swayed uneasily in the breeze over the raked dirt yard, where the crowd of revelers murmured impatiently as they waited for the festivities to begin. I stood on the edge of the yard, fidgeting with the sleeves on my new lavender dress and carefully avoiding the eyes of anyone who might happen to glance my way. I felt something move behind me and my heart jumped in my throat, but when I turned to look I saw only the band tuning up their strings and straightening their ties.

My stepmother stepped up to crude soapbox platform and favored the crowd with a smile. She was looking radiant in a scarlet gown of thick, crushed velvet, her hair swept up with an Oriental chignon, her lips darkened with a hint of rouge (which she would swear was nothing beyond the natural flush of high spirits). She cleared her throat before delivering her welcome speech, carefully scripted and rehearsed before the mirror in the days before so that every word and every gesture were perfectly punctuated with sincerity and elegance. With or without my father, she was a formidable woman, but her obstinance left even her dangerously vulnerable.

A modest flurry of applause welcomed her speech, and then heightened to a noisy cheer as the men on horseback edged away and the walls of the barn slowly began to rise. I breathed out heavily with relief as the walls fell into place without incident, and all of the able-bodied men rushed forward to hold the walls upright until they could be properly secured with nails.

"Exciting, isn't it?" a sultry voice behind me asked.

I gasped and whirled around to find myself facing none other than Laurent, his black eyes glittering down at me with amusement and something like... desire. Like the rest of the townspeople, he was dressed in his Sunday Best, though somehow I had difficulty placing the tight-fitted silk waistcoat and fine-spun wool slacks he wore in any kind of holy setting.

"Yes, I suppose it is," I answered uncertainly. Though my body remained fixed in a posture I assumed to be politely attentive, my eyes roamed around wildly for anything that might provide me with an avenue for escape. I caught sight of the wild-eyed Randall behind Laurent, standing with his stringy-haired girlfriend Mary. They both looked as vacant and lifeless as gargoyles (and equally as horrific), but I knew that one false move on my part would stir them to action – and violence.

Laurent took a step into my line of sight and captured my gaze again. "I've not seen you around lately, Miss Childress. Your mother claimed you to be ill whenever I came by to visit you, but I think perhaps she was trying to spare my pride." His gaze penetrated deep into me, almost compelling me to keep my eyes locked with his as he examined me.

"S-she did not speak amiss," I sputtered, backing myself against a beam and rattling the lanterns that hung from it. "Truly I was not well enough for company."

"That is unfortunate to hear. But here you stand before me looking well enough, I think." Here he allowed his eyes to take me in at a leisurely, appreciative pace. "Looking good enough to eat, actually," he said with a shallow laugh that chilled me to my core.

"Thank you," I made myself say, finally forcing my eyes away from his and down to the ground. Somewhere nearby the band began to play a merry tune, and I heard people making their way to the dance floor, their step already leaden and wobbly with the influence of drink. The distraction gave me a window of opportunity and I said quickly, "If you'll excuse me, I think I hear my mother calling..."

He caught my arm by the elbow as I turned to leave and wrenched me as smoothly as he did cruelly back towards him. "I don't hear anything. Come, let's dance, shall we?"

"Alright," I submitted, wincing at the pain of his hold and despairing any chance of escape.

And so I allowed myself to be led to the dance floor by a vampire.

He swept me easily into his arms, the lace of my lavender gown barely grazing the silk of his waistcoat. The music crescendoed and as the chorus began he led me into step with the perfect grace of a cat. I grew dizzy from the very scent of him as the lights and music and laughter swelled and swirled around me, and I clung to him helplessly for support. I was in the arms of the devil himself, and I confess I thought only of maintaining my own awkward footing. He pressed me tighter to him and an involuntary shudder rippled through me.

"You're frightened of me, aren't you?" he remarked as he simultaneously spun me and cast a wink to a pair of young girls, who were eagerly watching him dance from the side of the yard.

I didn't deny it, but my silence only confirmed his suspicions.

"May I ask why, _s'il vous plaît_? I think I've been nothing but pleasant to you and your mother. Have I done something to offend you?"

"No," I said, but my voice was barely a whisper. All I could picture was the cold grey of that little boy's skin at his funeral, the bite marks on his neck no one but me noticed...

He frowned. "Did one of my friends do something amiss?"

"Yes," I said at last, recalling the hungry look in Randall's eyes the moment before he left the parlor that day – only minutes before he murdered that boy in the cellar.

He made a sound of exasperation and asked wearily, "Was it Randall?"

"He killed that little boy," I said smally, finally comprehending the full horror of it. Tears sprang to my eyes at the thought. It was a tale from a gothic nightmare, not something that happened to real people – not something that happened to me. "He drank all his blood."

Laurent's grip on me tightened and I couldn't help but let out a cry. He was silent as he decided how best to respond to me, but his grace at dancing never faltered. The music sounded like a deafening roar to me in the mean time, drowned out only by the pounding of my heart.

"You know what we are," he said finally, a hint of steel that I'd never heard before edging his voice like a knife.

"Murderers," I said, anger giving rise to any sense of self-preservation I should have had. "Killers and thieves."

"I think you know we're much more than that," he said, easily sliding back into his suave persona. He gave a short laugh as he twisted me around in his arms so that I danced with my back to him. The music stopped but still he held me in his arms, keeping me captive. I saw my stepmother across the floor, chatting with the elegant Charles and his small, dark wife Makenna. My stepmother smiled and waved to me when she saw I was dancing with Laurent. I shot her a pleading look that she dismissed with a laugh.

"Did Delgado send you?" I asked through gritted teeth.

"Yes," he answered, twirling me around to face him again as a new song began to play. It was a strange, sad song – some Eastern mazurka I'd never heard before. Around us couples began to pair off into quadrilles, young lovers suspended in some starry-eyed haze of music and motion, completely surrendered to each other and the dance.

"Are you going to kill me?" I asked flatly, keeping my eyes trained defiantly on Laurent's tie as we met in the middle under the arms of our partner couple, who not surprisingly turned out to be Randall and Mary.

"_Mais non_," he said, sounding surprised at my question. "My orders are to keep you alive, _chére_. Your father has something belonging to our master, and you're our guarantee that he complies with our demands."

"What are your demands, exactly?" I asked, looking fearfully at the faces of the three vampires as they danced circles around me in time with the music.

"Our master wants what's rightfully his," Randall interjected as he spun me around and handed me back to Laurent.

"And what is that?" I asked breathlessly.

"Everything," they all said with a horrid laugh.

"And Victoria..." Laurent said when I was back in his arms again. "Don't try to hide from me again. I will find you, and when I do..." He slid his hand up my spine to the back of my neck, where he let his thumb seek out and linger over the throbbing point of my pulse. "Let's just say that Delgado may lose one of his bargaining chips."

I shivered and swallowed hard. "I understand," I whispered, and I knew I had given up. I'd have to play by their rules until... until what? Until my death? Or was I naïve enough to hope for rescue? I was foolish enough before to think that James could save me from my father, but I knew he was no equal to the vampires in strength or cunning. Even though I realized James couldn't help me now, one small, but vital part of me hoped and prayed against all thought, reason, and doubt that he could.

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	9. Betrayal

**All Twilight characters are the property of Stephenie Meyer.**

**I had quite a time writing this intense chapter and I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it. Remember to look out for KCerena's review of this story on The Little Known Ficster this Friday, July 30 (you can find the link on my profile). Thanks so much for your input and your support!**

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**Betrayal**

_James' POV_

I didn't know what sum Childress offered to pay for his services as a guide, but at dawn of the next day Benito was as good as a member of our crew. Most of the men were beside themselves with relief to finally know where we were going and that pay awaited us at the end of the road, and so welcomed the stranger readily enough; only Black and I remained suspicious, though we did so quietly. I undertook the task of keeping my eye on him, but soon realized such an effort was pointless. Begging off our offer of a horse, he was consigned to travel on the bench of the chuck wagon along with Cook, who seemed pleased to have someone to keep him company, however mysterious or creepy. He sat bundled under blankets, the brim of his hat pulled down low over his eyes as he dozed next to Cook all day long. At night he set out his bed right along with the rest of us by the fire. Short of following him to the woods to take a piss, I made sure he never left my sight. But if he ever chanced to make a false move, I wasn't awake to see it.

But I wasn't so convinced as the others that he was nothing more than a simple mountain man perfectly willing to help out his fellow man in exchange for honest pay. Especially considering we lost two more cows over the course of the next few days, and I wasn't buying McClellan's theory that they fell down a ravine. As the man in charge of strays, I was pretty adept at guessing where stragglers might have wandered off to, and I found no indication that they had gone anywhere at all on this earth. I checked every ravine, every mountain hollow, every murky wilderness we passed and found nothing. They had completely disappeared.

At long last we reached San Francisco. San Francisco was not particularly known for its cattle trade, but as a center of regional commerce it was happy enough to deal in goods of all kinds, be they honest or otherwise. The transaction was conducted with surprising ease – if the brands were a might too fresh on a few of the hides, no one seemed to pay them any mind. In the end we were all paid, and rather more handsomely than we had expected. Despite the boon to our good humor our safe arrival and our full wallets provided, we were exhausted, dirty, and starved for depravity. No sooner had the deal been made at the cattle auctioneer than we made our way to some local bordello, where we could blow off steam and waste some of our newly earned cash. While the rest of the men crowded around a roulette wheel or the flesh show, I found myself unable to join them in their celebratory carousing. I was planning to take my leave of them sooner rather than later, and I wasn't at all anxious to draw out the farewell proceedings. I sat instead to the side with Silas Black, absently weighing the bag of coins in my hand and contemplating where I might go next. Black had been stoically nursing the same beer all evening in some miserly show of prudence, and I commented as much when I ordered my next drink.

He shrugged, unconcerned with my thoughts on his habits. "I prefer to save my money for my family, and not throw it away on... temporary pleasures," he said, his line of sight directed on Mason O'Morris, who currently had his hands down the bodice of a busty blonde waitress.

"I didn't know you had a family," I said, but I should have guessed that he would. They were probably quiet, dull, and honorable – just like their patriarch.

"Yes," Black said, a quiet smile briefly flashing across his face. "My wife, Hannah, and my little boy Levi. He'll be about two years old now."

"Quaint," I said, distracted by the sight of Benito seated alone in a corner booth, his eyes slitted like a cat's – not drinking, not eating, not even breathing – appearing to the world to be asleep. Something was still nagging me about him. Not that I should care now, since I had my mind on never seeing him, Childress, or any of them ever again.

"Do you have a family?" Black asked conversationally.

"Not anymore," I answered, still looking at Benito.

"Are they back in Boston?"

"No, they're dead."

"Oh," he said mildly. "I'm sorry."

"Silas," I said in a serious voice, turning to him. I don't know what had come over me, but it felt something like fear. "Look, I have a feeling something bad is going to happen back at Childress' ranch. Don't go back there – just take your coin and your horse and get back to your wife and kid. This job is not worth it."

"I wasn't planning to go back," he said, setting down his glass and narrowing his eyes at me, "But what's got you spooked, Jim? And what do you care what happens back at the ranch? I thought you were splitting company, too?"

I ran my hand unconsciously through my hair. I felt like I'd just woken up from a dream and knew I was running from something, but couldn't remember what. "It's nothing. I don't know. Maybe I'm not." The thought of Victoria's open arms waiting for me had its appeal, but was it worth the torment?

Black lowered his voice, "Listen, does this have something to do with the odd fellow we picked up in the woods?" He indicated with a flick of his eyes that he meant Benito.

"He's up to something," I said, leaning forward in my chair. "I just know he is. Don't you find it a little unusual that he just happened to show up in the middle of nowhere and come to Childress' rescue? No, I don't trust him at all."

"Well I don't trust him either, but what's it got to do with you? If he has a grudge with Childress, let Childress handle it. It's not our problem. Let them take it back to the ranch and we'll go on our separate way."

"Wait, you think Benito's going back to Childress' ranch?" Back to the ranch where Victoria was waiting for me, entirely too vulnerable in her innocence. Another emotion twinged inside of me. Something that felt a lot like dread.

"I heard Childress offer him a job... Jim! Seriously – what is wrong with you? You're sweating!"

I wiped a hand across my brow and found that I was, even though the air was slightly chilled in the drafty bordello house. I felt like such a fool for even suspecting... and yet I couldn't stand to be in the dark any longer. If a monster was heading straight for Victoria, I just had to know.

I sighed heavily, hating myself for even mentioning it. "So, you remember our conversation the other night about the... about the... you know." I waved my hand inadequately.

He raised an eyebrow. "About the vampires? I told you everything I know. I'm not any sort of vampire slayer, Jim, if you had some idea about going on some quest to stop them."

I exhaled noisily and kicked a toe at the sawdust-covered floor. "I think Benito's the vampire."

"_What?_" Black exclaimed, his mouth half-formed around a laugh that died on his lips the second he saw my expression. "Oh my God, you're _serious_."

"You believe vampire exist, don't you?"

"Well, sure, I guess so. The ancient stories have been right about stranger things."

"Then why couldn't he be a vampire?"

He fumbled around for an answer but found none. "I guess he could be. But what proof do you have?"

"Nothing really. But even if he isn't that, there's something not right about him – you know it, I know it, we all know it – and I intend to find out what it is," I said, finishing my drink and standing up.

"And how are you going to do that?"

"Simple – I'm going to ask."

Black regarded me with wide, awed eyes. "I hope you're wrong, Jim. Good God, I really hope you're wrong."

"It was nice knowing you, Black. Keep in touch," I said, tossing down a few coins to cover the drinks.

I turned on my heels, mustered some courage, and steered myself towards the vampire's lair.

Benito opened one dark eye at my approach. "Mr. Wilder," he said, smiling warmly. "How good of you to join me."

"You act as if you were expecting me," I said warily, sitting as far away from him in the booth as I could."

"But I was," he said affably. "Can I get you a drink?"

"Sure," I said after a moment's hesitation. "Scotch."

"Perfect," he replied, his mouth quirking with a hidden smile. He gestured to the waitress, some little doxy with a gap in her teeth, and relayed my order.

"What do you want?" I asked him point-blank once the woman left.

"From you?"

"From any of us."

He looked at me for a moment, as if trying to see how long I could hold my face in the determined scowl it was currently fixed in. He finally said cryptically, "I'm going to be blunt with you, cowboy, because I think the time for guile and artifice has already passed. I believe we two are of a purpose in regards to a certain individual." He led me with his eyes to look over at Donald Childress, who was sharing a booth and a pint with Cook and McClellan, their bawdy laughter echoing from the rafters of the large room.

"You mean Childress? It's not a secret that I don't care for the man. Hell, I doubt any of his men could claim anything nicer than indifference towards him – even the ones he keeps closet," I sneered, training my glare on the pretty young redhead being dawdled on Childress' arthritic knee. Her resemblance to his daughter was more than passing, even though she was obviously a prostitute, and everyone in his crew knew it. Though I despised the man, I marveled at his shamelessness. To be immune to shame and guilt – now that would be power indeed.

"But _you_ hate him in particular."

The waitress set my drink in front of me and I sniffed it subtly as I brought it to my lips. It was expensive Scotch, and it made me suspicious. "Does that mean I win a prize?"

He laughed out loud. "Maybe," he said gamely. "I wonder why that is though. That you hate him so much. Did he perhaps offend someone that you care about deeply? A woman, likely."

I bristled at his accusation. Surely he had no way of knowing about my involvement with Victoria... "I don't know what you mean," I hissed. What I had intended as an ambush on him had somehow gotten twisted into interrogation about me.

"I mean of course your mother, James."

I nearly dropped my glass. Now how could he know _that_?

"Really, James, maybe Childress doesn't pay much attention to references, but when I'm in the market for an accomplice I _always_ check up on them. So, the old bastard is your stepfather, hmm?" Benito leaned back into the faded upholstery of his seat, enjoying the look of shock and revulsion that washed over my face.

Shocking and revolting though it was, it was half true. Twenty years ago, my mother had made the critical mistake of marrying a man much richer and crueler than herself, and she had paid the price for it. As for myself, I had barely spent more than two minutes in the bastard's presence, but the ghost of what he did to my mother had haunted me ever since.

"_Was_ my stepfather," I spat out, my hands curling into fists. "Before he killed my mother."

"Now, that's not how the story really went, is it? He married your mother, shipped you off to boarding school, dumped your mother, and then your mother set off for merry old Europe, yes? Only she died very soon after. A pity. I understand consumption is a common ailment among whores."

"What did you say?" I snarled. I stood then, tossing aside my empty glass and letting it fall to the floor with a satisfying shatter. My body was trembling with rage. Even over the noise and bustle of the main hall, heads turned at the hint of a good fight.

"Sit down," Benito said calmly, though his eyes flared red with a lethal warning.

"Or what?" I growled.

"Or I will kill you in front of all these people," he promised, pulling his lip back from his teeth, which glimmered threateningly in the dim light. "Now _sit down_."

My jaw fell neatly away, and I found myself sitting by no will of my own.

"It's very ungracious of you to act so surprised, James. Surely you know vampires have keen hearing," he said with a vicious smile, nodding his head in the direction of Silas Black, who was already making his way out of the door. "We're also not stupid enough to be cornered by a cocky human with something to prove. Now, can I get you another drink? You seem to have spilled yours." He raised a finger to call the waitress back over.

"Sure," I said, the color leaving my face as I sank heavily back in my seat. "Make it a double." My tongue felt suddenly numb, my head buzzing. I wasn't sure if more alcohol would help or hurt, but at present it seemed the best solution. The doxy waitress didn't even look at me, so fixated as she was on the velvet of Benito's voice as he confirmed my order.

After she left, I regained what was left of my voice. "So you... you really are...?"

"I am."

The waitress brought my drink and I took a healthy guzzle of mine, willing my hands to stop shaking and my heart to stop pounding. I gripped the glass to the point of aching before I finally looked back up at him. A vampire. I'd lived through the past few days of suspicion and doubt only to culminate in this anti-climatic... humiliation. To add to my shame, I knew by the dark smirk on his face that he was more than aware of the symptoms of my mortal anxiety.

"Are you going to kill me now that I found out?" I asked after I found my voice again.

"Now why is that always the first question they ask?" Benito muttered to himself with a slight chuckle. "No, James," he said, raising his voice to human levels again, "Do you really think humans just stumble upon our true natures without our consent? Trust me, if I didn't want you to know what I was I could easily make you forget."

"You could?" I asked, fear giving way to curiosity. "How?"

"Inquisitive – I like that. Would you care for a demonstration?" He smiled devilishly. "Do you want that girl over there?"

"Pardon?" I asked, a little hoarsely.

"That girl on Childress' lap?" he said, gesturing to Childress and the redheaded harlot. "You've been staring at her. Do you want her?"

"Yes," I confessed before I could realize he meant the whore and not the girl she reminded me of.

"Then she's yours," Benito promised with a bow, suddenly disappearing from in front of me. I turned with confusion to see him talking to the girl on Childress' lap. After a few seconds she dismounted the old beast and followed after Benito in a daze all the way back to our table. Behind her, Childress balked and blustered like a crazed pit bull. That, at least, made me smile.

"Now, what is your name, darling?" Benito said, leaning down to the young woman's height and looking deep into her eyes.

"Lizzy," she said in monotone, her pale green eyes clouding over under his influence.

"Well, Lizzy," he said, taking her hand in his. "Why don't you take us up to your room so we can all have a nice chat?"

The girl nodded and complied, and I helplessly followed after them, equally powerless under Benito's spell.

She led us up the creaking side stairwell, where the din of music and laughter gave way to the screeching of bedsprings and the various grunts of customers in the process of being satisfied. She took us to the room at the far end of the hall, unlocking the door with a key she pulled from her bodice. I gauged by the various bottles of perfume and half empty liters of gin scattered about the scuffed pine furniture that this was her private residence as well as her workplace. Given the lack of any other horizontal surface in the room, Benito made himself at home on one corner of the dingy bed, which was half covered by a threadbare quilt that had doubtless been passed down through countless generations only to survive as the stained shroud of a whore's altar. I folded my arms and eyed the oddly matched pair uncertainly, the girl swaying lightly on her feet in the doorway as Benito crossed his legs and took an appraising glance around the ruins of her life.

"Have a seat," he said, indicating the space beside him. I obeyed, though I found no comfort in my perch on the lumpy mattress.

"Not you," he chided the girl, who looked like she was moving to sit beside me. "On your knees."

I was almost thankful for his vampire's spell over the girl so I would not have to see the human shame in her eyes as she knelt before me, gathering her ill-fitting skirts in a pool around her legs. I found I couldn't meet her milky gaze, though she was staring at me rather fixedly.

"Now, James, you'll find that by becoming a vampire you won't have to give up any of the pleasures of the flesh. The barricades of human convention will be completely obliterated in the face of your new powers. Observe: Lizzy, be a dear and suck Mr. Wilder's cock."

I choked on my tongue, turning to regard Benito with the utmost of incredulity. "Are you fucking serious? Right _now_?" I was simultaneously revolted and yet... undeniably aroused by the idea. I'd like to blame my enthusiasm on the fact that I was mostly drunk by this point, but let's face it – this wasn't exactly my first visit to a paid woman. All the same, I'd _certainly_ never entertained a woman in the company of another man, vampire or no.

I may have been embarrassed, but thanks to Benito's enchantment, Lizzy suffered from no such compunctions. She leaped to obey him, her small white hands going to work on the fastenings of my pants without hesitation. I raised my hands to stay her, but Benito's cold, painful grip on my shoulder stopped me.

"James, let her," Benito said, turning his hypnotic red stare on me. "You'll enjoy it."

I crumbled beneath his will, my body forced into a relaxation I didn't intend as the girl bent her head and took my traitorous member between her skilled lips. An involuntary groan escaped me, and a triumphant sneer lit up Benito's features.

"Now, James," he said, trailing his hand across my shoulder blades and eliciting a compulsive shiver from me. "Isn't it nice having everyone do exactly as you say? Never having to censor your basest desires? Having everything delivered to you on a silver platter?"

"I suppose so..." My breath hitched in my throat as the girl took my cock even further into her mouth, her tiny hands and lips increasing their speed and pressure in response to the unconscious arching of my hips into her.

"Of course, once you're a vampire you may find your desires change a bit," he drawled thoughtfully, sliding one finger up the side of my neck and settling it over the hollow of my throat, my pulse beating eagerly against it. "For instance, you might not be enjoying this girl's mouth around you just because it gives you sexual gratification. You might begin to appreciate the finer, more complex aspects of her humiliation. You may come to value the very act of her disgrace in itself – really savor the sensation of using her as a piece of disposable property. Does that excite you, James?" He leaned in closer, all but whispering in my ear, his seductive breath flooding my senses and opening an unfamiliar pit of yearning in my gut.

"Yes," I bit out, strangling another cry of pleasure before it could betray me. I found myself putting my hand on the back of the girl's compliant head, tangling my fingers in her familiar red tendrils. I almost expected to smell lavender and roses, to see deep brown eyes looking up at me... I knew Victoria would do this for me without compulsion; she would eagerly debase herself for my approval. And I would let her.

"And there's yet still the joy of revenge," I heard Benito hiss in my ear, the unmistakable sensation of his _teeth_ grazing along the line of my jaw. I hated it and yet it thrilled me. "You _took_ this girl from Childress' greedy clutches, and even if she means nothing to _you_, her loss will mean everything to _him_."

"Yes," I agreed huskily, my head buzzing from the amalgam of stimuli, my body responding in perfect throbbing time to the girl's ministrations. I realized he was right. I could take Victoria away from Childress. Even if I didn't love her like I ought to, Childress could never enjoy the touch of her skin again. He would derive satisfaction from her suffering no more.

"And then..." Benito said, his lips curling up into a wicked smile. "You'll be able to comprehend the ecstasy of violence _for violence's sake_. Tell me, does the thought of harming Childress entice you? Does the idea of choking out his life with your bare hands bring you pleasure? Wouldn't you like to make him bleed for what he's done to you, James?" As he spoke his voice grew more and more taut with energy, his eyes darkening with bloodlust as he watched the girl work on me, his fingers digging harder into my shoulders.

Delicious heat radiated up my body from the girl's mouth, and impervious cold clawed slowly down from Benito's hands. Hot and cold. Human and monster. I felt myself teetering over the gaping yaw of an abyss. On one side lay suffering, on the other supremacy. Why couldn't I have both? The thought of Childress suffering for his wrongs under my power was overpowering in its seduction, but would it mean losing Victoria as well? Anger and desire swirled dangerously inside of me, and I knew I was backing closer and closer to the edge. And at last, I let myself fall over.

"Yes!" I almost shouted, both in answer to his question and to the force of my climax. "Oh God, yes!" I said, falling back on the dirty mattress and panting.

"Oh, Maria would have _loved_ you!" Benito laughed, clapping his hands and startling the girl out of her trance. She started whimpering in her bewilderment and he was at her side in a flash, clamping a hand over her mouth. "The only thing holding you back is that shell of flesh and blood you drag around. How would you like to trade in your pathetic existence for something greater?"

Was he seriously suggesting that I become... like him? I let my mind wander over that possibility, and at the end of every train of thought was Victoria's face, appearing just as it was the morning of the fire – lost, scared, and completely alone. And yet I'd by lying if I said his offer didn't appeal to me on some basic level that terrified me. "I'll think about it," I said breathily, reaching down to put my clothes to rights.

"Be my guest," he said with a gracious wave of his free hand. "But, I assume you'll still wish to be involved in my plot against Childress?"

"Definitely," I answered, and my resolution was genuine. "I'll even kill him myself."

He laughed again, snaking his other arm around the scared girl's waist and pulling her tight against his chest. "I hope you really mean that, James. Being comfortable with murder is part and parcel to our particular lifestyle."

He grinned then, the deadly grin of a hunter who has just caught up with his prey, and bit down hard into the girl's neck. She gasped and screamed and struggled until she began to choke on her own blood as it poured unfettered from her throat into his mouth. As I watched her sag limply into his arms, I was revolted, excited, and loathing – and keenly aware that there was no way I could turn down Benito's offer.

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	10. Helpless

**All Twilight characters are the property of Stephenie Meyer.**

**Thank you for your comments, readers, old and new! I do apologize for the wait on this chapter, but I think you're really going to enjoy it. I certainly did. Also, the link to KCerena's very fine review of this story is up on my profile. Thank you again!**

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**Helpless**

_Victoria's POV_

I maintained a constant vigil by my windowsill in the following days. To go outside had been absolutely forbidden, but Laurent did not deny me the torture of gazing out at the horizon, my heart aching to detect a familiar figure turn the bend in the road. The silhouettes of the trees bent and waved against the fading sunset, tricking my vision into believing it saw something moving up the road, and I stood to get a better look.

"Are you so anxious for your _papá's_ return?" Laurent asked me as he escorted Louisa into the room with my dinner. She was a haggard sight to behold. The poor woman's eyes were red and swollen from crying, and the bit of her skin that remained exposed above her collar and wristbands was bruised and bandaged. They had been feeding from her, using a knife to bleed her in order to avoid losing control and killing her – a precaution that Laurent had insisted on after Randall's accident with the blacksmith's son and the baker's wife. I think if I were Louisa I might rather have died, but Laurent assured me that his orders were to keep everyone alive until his master returned.

I hesitated before answering his question. "Of course I am," I said finally, turning back to look out the window again. _Of course I was_, because James would be with him. It was a foolish desire. The situation was hopeless, and I knew it. Even if James and my father's men returned, what match were they against half a dozen monsters?

"I only ask because as I am told, his particular affection for you is one-sided."

"Who told you that?" I whirled around to look at him and caught the sight of Louisa ducking her head and blushing. She quickly curtsied and excused herself before I had the chance to accuse her of anything. Somehow knowing that others were aware of my affliction rendered the cut that much deeper. I felt a lump rise in my throat and forced it down quickly.

Laurent smiled his dazzling smile as the woman departed and offered me a shrug. "There are no secrets from vampires, _mademoiselle_. You will see in time."

"I think I've seen rather more of vampires than I care to, thank you."

Laurent strode forward and forced my face up to look at him with one finger. "You know that I like you, Victoria."

His glowing red eyes locked onto mine and I was powerless to turn away, even though my entire body was screaming for me to do so. "I know," I said quietly.

"And you know that the only reason no one has touched you yet is that I am protecting you, do you not?"

I swallowed hard, distressed by his use of the word 'yet'. "I know that, yes," I answered.

"And the only reason that _I_ have not touched you myself, _chère_…" he purred, skimming the back of his hand down my cheek, "…is because I am under orders not to."

"Under Delgado's orders," I supplied. "Tell me, why does he need me at all? If he wants my father's ranch – why not just take it from him before he gets back? You could let my mother and me go and we won't be such an inconvenience to you," I said, unable to keep a tone of disgust from my voice.

"It is not so easy. If we simply stole and killed for what we wanted, we'd possess very little and we'd constantly be fighting to keep it. If you want to succeed, you have to know when to play by the rules, yes? Delgado wants the deed to your father's ranch, which requires his signature. Now, we could compel him to do so simply by the power of our imaginations, but such a signature would not match his usual style, you see? No. So, Delgado has proposed a simple trade: you for your father's signature."

My voice shook a little as I spoke, "Why not trade my mother instead? She's worth more to him."

"Ah, I think you underestimate him, _chère_. It's you that he desires more than anything else in the world. But we will keep your mother, too."

I shuddered at his words, and I knew with a dreaded certainty that he was telling the truth. I felt sick and scared and angry. To be punished because I was loved was the most disheartening sensation imaginable.

The next morning, I tried again to escape. A vain effort, but necessary for what shreds of dignity I yet maintained. The vampires usually spent the morning in a state of rest – seated upright with eyes wide open and glazed over, staring off into the ether as their bodies digested (in whatever manner that it was) the blood they'd consumed the night before. Once the sun began to rise, I crept out of the window and made the trembling climb down the side of the house, heart pounding and breath withheld. Of course, I never stood a chance. At the foot of the trellis, Randall was waiting for me with a murderous grin.

"Good morning," he said, his red eyes dancing like flames with his delight.

"Good morning," I said in defeat, and he dragged me back into the house by my hair, my screams reverberating across the entire ranch.

Laurent was standing in the foyer, flanked on either side by Charles and Makenna, and his expression was grave. Though he'd always maintained a politely indifferent exterior, I'd known it was only a matter of time before Laurent lost his patience with me.

"Put her in the cellar," he declared. "And don't bite her," he added as an after thought.

Randall wasted no time in complying, and with a single careless toss he sent me flying down the steps of the cellar, jarring skin and bone and limb until I landed in an injured heap at the bottom, parts splayed out like a broken doll. To be honest, I preferred being down there to being locked in my room. When I was locked in my room the window had taunted me mercilessly with ideas of escape or James' return. Here, I had not the burden of such hope.

I could have easily borne it if that were to be the extent of my punishment, but the vampires had more in store for my suffering. Since they could not bite me, they bit my stepmother instead, repeatedly poisoning her with their crippling venom and sucking it out again, until she had not the strength to even whisper in protest. It fair drove me mad to have to listen to her, knowing that it was my fault she was being punished and that I could do nothing to stop it. Finally, they carried her unconscious body down the cellar steps and dropped her next to me. She slept for two days and woke up sobbing. I shared what little food they gave me with her and did my best to comfort her, but her guilt at not believing me tormented her further. "_I'm so sorry,_" she had sobbed as she rushed into my arms, spindly and weak from hunger as they were. "_I should have listened to you._"

Now I folded my legs against my chest and ducked my head under my arms, trying to protect myself from the sounds of her wails. I barely noticed the cellar door opening, and was surprised to see the forms of Makenna and Mary standing before us when I looked up.

"You're to wash yourselves and put these on," Makenna snapped, throwing an armful of garments at us. Behind her, Mary emptied two buckets of water into a large basin and went up the stairs to fetch more. My stepmother shrank back and began whimpering at the sight of them.

"What for?" I asked weakly.

"You have company," she said wryly, turning to sashay back up the stairs.

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We washed as thoroughly as we could in the cold water that Mary brought, having only half a bar of soap and the dim glow of a candle to aid us. We turned next to the clothes, which we discovered were not ours. They were formal ball gowns in rich, heavy fabrics – the likes of which we hadn't seen since we'd left Boston. There were also a slew of corsets, crinolines and underskirts that I put on with great reluctance, knowing the narrow waist and full skirts of the dress would never fit without all the supportive underwear. When we were finished, Makenna and Mary returned to examine us and arrange our hair, lovingly brushing the damp strands as if we were two human dolls they had dressed up for their own amusement. I wasn't entirely convinced that they hadn't until they commanded us to follow them up the stairs.

I squinted as the bright light of the kitchen overtook us, and I looked around for the other vampires. Where were they taking us?

The two vampire women led us to the parlor, where we were shocked to see my father sitting on one settee, his hands and legs bound with ropes.

"Donald!" my stepmother cried his name with relief and I gasped at the sight of him. We both moved towards him, but were stopped by the women's arms around our waists. My stomach flip-flopped at the conflicting emotions of seeing him again – my father and my tormentor.

"Victoria! Mandy!" he said, his cloudy eyes lighting up at the sight of us. "Are you two alright?"

"As you can see, they are perfectly well. Please join us, ladies," Laurent said, stepping into view and gesturing for us to enter the parlor.

"You let them the fuck go!" my father shouted, his face blotching a deep red and his chin wobbling with the violence of his speech. "This ain't got nothin' to do with them! It's me you want!" He kicked at his bindings and tried to stand, but fell back hard onto the settee under an unexpected blow from Laurent, who had seemingly appeared from nowhere.

"Be quiet, _monsieur_, or I shall rip your tongue right out of your head," Laurent snarled, one hand raised threateningly, the fingers gnarled into a claw.

"Oh good, everyone's here," a new voice said, and we all turned to see who the newcomer was.

He was of a slighter build than Laurent, but his skin was of the same silky olive hue and his features, though harder, were handsome. He was dressed in jeans and leather _armitas_ under a fringed suede riding coat and a wide-brimmed leather hat. He looked at me with his dark, red eyes and smiled.

"_Delgado_," I hissed in accusation.

My father balked. "_You're_ Delgado?"

The stranger seemed amused to hear himself addressed thusly, but he inclined his head slightly in a bow. "Some call me that. And you must be the lovely Victoria? I've heard _so_ much about you."

"Victoria?" a voice behind him asked, and the world fell out beneath me when the second man pushed past the first and walked in through the door.

_James._

"Wilder," my father spat, returning the look James gave him with equal venom and hatred. "I knew you must have had something to do with this."

"James!" I cried in a half-sob of relief, struggling against Makenna's grip. She hissed and held me in place, but she couldn't stop my heart from soaring with joy at the sight of him. He'd come back for me!

James took one look at me and stiffened with anger. He turned to Delgado and barked in an angry whisper, "What the hell is this? You said you'd keep her out of this!"

I stopped struggling, stunned. What did James have to do with this? With the vampires, with kidnapping my father…? I was overcome with a striking sense of unease.

"And so she shall," Delgado replied silkily, petting James' arm in a reassuring gesture that I found to be much too familiar for my comfort. "Laurent, you may take this dear little girl away. She doesn't need to see this."

"See what?" I asked, my voice shrill with anger. "What are you going to do to my family?"

"This way, _chère_," Laurent said, cooly reaching to take me from Makenna's grasp.

"Don't you dare touch me," I growled out at him, possessed by some kind of fire alien to myself. I turned to James and beseeched him, "James! Don't let him take me!" My heart sank when James turned away, unwilling to meet my eyes. Tears that had remained unshed until now spilled hot and angry down my cheeks. A knot formed in my throat as I choked out one last desperate plea: "James?"

James, still looking down, addressed the newcomer, "You promised, Benito."

The man called Benito or Delgado quirked up an eyebrow at James' brashness, but finally acquiesced with a nod. "Then you take care of her, James."

The tension in James' face broke with relief and he started forward towards me, only to be caught by the arm. "But you'd best remember your end of the bargain," Benito added in an undertone.

James nodded absently, his gaze focused on me. He broke free from the vampire's grasp finally and reached me, my eager fingers grasping for his. "Come with me, Vicky," he whispered soothingly to me, taking my arm and leading me from the room.

I looked over my shoulder uncertainly to where my parents sat as James led me outside. My stepmother, mercifully, had elected to faint, but my father stared long and hard back at me, his eyes reflecting a mixture of concern and… betrayal. Absurdly, I was offended. As if I had anything to do with this! James tightened his hold on my arm to indicate that we should keep moving, and I forced myself to look away from my parents. I wondered if it would be the last time I'd ever see them.

As the door closed behind us I heard Benito begin to say, "Now, Mr. Childress. I believe we have some business to discuss..."

"You're working for _him?_" I asked incredulously once the pair of us was away from the house. "For _Delgado_?" My teeth immediately began chattering as we stepped into the December chill, the night's frost on the dead grass crunching lightly underfoot.

"Look, I didn't know he was Delgado, alright? I just figured that part out when you mentioned it." He sounded rather annoyed to be the last to know.

"But you knew he was a vampire that wanted to hurt my father!" I bit out through clenched teeth, trying to keep my voice low enough to avoid attracting the vampires' attention but loud enough to get my anger across.

He didn't answer me, just clenched his jaw and led me resolutely past the bunkhouse, where I could hear shouts and commotion – undoubtedly the sounds of Randall and Charles subduing the rest of my father's men. James closed his eyes and shook his head, quickening his pace past the low building, making a path towards the new barn. He pushed on the heavy door and it gave way, unleashing the strong scent of fresh paint and hay from within.

"Why are you taking me here?" I asked quietly, more than a little unnerved by the swell of conflicting emotions spilling over me. On the one hand I was overjoyed to see him, but on the other hand – I wasn't sure that this was the same James that left me.

James turned to me, his tone exasperated, "Would you rather I left you in there with _them_?"

I was stunned into silence by the harshness of his tone. "No…" I replied in a small voice.

Seeing my reaction he groaned and dragged his hands down his face in frustration. "Damnit, Vicky, just get inside so you don't freeze to death. Please. No one's going to hurt you."

What other choice did I have but to believe him? If the situation weren't already as desperate as it was, there was also the consideration that I was helplessly in love with this man. I would have followed him into that barn even if it were in flames.

"OK," I agreed, slipping in through the crack in the door and turning to watch him close it behind us. James reached for the lantern hanging to the side of the door and pulled a pack of matches from his pocket. He set to work on lighting one, but by the shaking of his hands I suspected that wouldn't be possible.

"Here, let me," I said softly, taking his hands into mine. His hands were cold as ice and I nearly flinched away, but I forced myself to keep hold of them. He stood back in awe as I took the match from his fingers and calmly struck a flame. I lit the lantern, and in the sudden flare of the new flame his face looked frightened. I hung the lantern on the hook and placed my hands with concern on his pallid cheeks. "James," I began, my face tightening with worry, "What happened while you were gone?"

"I could ask the same of you," he whispered, raising a hand to my bruised cheek.

I leaned into his touch and sighed. "It doesn't matter what happened to me. You're here with me now. We'll be OK." I smiled up at him and he returned my smile weakly. "Won't we be?" I added uncertainly.

He looked down at me then and met my hopeful gaze, his pale blue eyes shimmering with an unfamiliar sheen. "Vicky, I… I don't…" He looked as if he were struggling to say something, but didn't quite know the words. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. "I love you, Vicky," he choked out finally, his voice as unsteady as his hands.

My heart simultaneously leaped and sank. While his words overjoyed me, I was troubled by his discomposure. I took his face between my palms, an unconscious grin spreading across my own face even as tears watered in my eyes. "You do?" I asked, looking deeply into his eyes for the truth, but finding only a profound sadness. "I love you, too!" I said, relieved to finally be able to tell him.

He let out a noisy breath and crushed me against his chest, his breathing labored, his heart pounding against mine. There was something he wasn't telling me and it was terrifying me. "James, what's wrong?" I asked, curling my hands into his shirt, clinging to him for dear life.

"Shhh, it's nothing. It'll be OK," he said, but it sounded as if even he didn't believe himself. Instead of explaining, he pulled back slightly from our embrace and tipped my chin up to his in a kiss. I met his mouth with a passion pent up over weeks of longing and years of neglect. A hot coil of warmth flared up and smoldered in my stomach as he deepened the kiss, parting my pliant lips with his tongue, laying claim to what I offered so willingly. How I'd missed this! I drank in the whole of him: the faint taste of tobacco on the tip of my tongue, the rough brush of wool against my breasts, the taut sinew of strength encircling my waist. In return he kissed me with the reckless abandon of a dying man. He was everything I'd never dreamed of wanting and my need for him was so strong it scared me.

Moved by some incautious emotion, I raised my hands to the buttons at the back of my neck, wishing anxiously to be out of this ridiculous gown and into James' arms. He understood my intent almost immediately and slid his hands down the front of the dress, tugging the fabric down as I unfastened the buttons and helping it slip down to the floor in a pile with the crinoline. He hurriedly unbuttoned his coat and tossed it aside before rushing back to me, the force of his enthusiasm knocking me back against the door of the barn. My breath quickened with exhilaration as my back hit the freshly painted wood, and I looked up at him with wide eyes as he stalked towards me, his eyes burning a trail up and down my body. He lifted his hands to the cinched waist of the frilly corset and skimmed his fingertips at an agonizingly unhurried pace up to where the tops of my breasts spilled over the strained fabric.

"You don't normally wear one of these," he observed, dipping his thumb beneath the fabric to brush one of my nipples.

I gasped before I answered him, my whole body suddenly coming alive from his simple touch. "They made me," I explained.

He looked up at me sharply. "Did they touch you?"

"No." I shook my head slightly, afraid that too much movement would break the spell of the moment.

"Thank God," he murmured. He lowered his mouth to mine again and I sighed with relief, molding my body to his, anxious to touch every part of him at once. I touched my hands to his chest and let them wander down the hard plane of his muscles to the buckle of his belt, where I let them linger for a halting moment before braving ever downward to the front of his trousers. I let out a tiny cry of surprise as my hand found the appreciable bulge intended for me, and I thought I felt him smile against my lips. "I've missed you a lot," he said, giving my bottom lip a teasing nip. He arched into my hand and gave a small groan as I caressed him experimentally.

"So have I," I whispered, closing my eyes and letting my head fall back against the door. He trailed his mouth along the line of my throat and my heart raced faster in response. I was unable to tell whether it was the tightness of the corset or his mere proximity that was rendering me lightheaded. I felt heat and desire melting within me, pooling in my core. "Oh James, so have I," I said, my breath coming in shallow gasps.

I tried to work his buckle open but he stopped me, scooping my legs up under each arm and pressing me hard against the door with his body. I stifled a moan as he ground his hips against me, his arousal brushing against my bare, heated flesh where the seam of my drawers gaped open. The teasing motion was driving me wild and my mouth begged of its own accord, "Will you touch me?" I was mortified to ask, but my body was aching for him.

I felt his answering chuckle rumble in my own throat, where his mouth was decidedly fixed. "Just tell me how," he replied, squeezing the backs of my thighs where he held me up.

"How you did before… in my bed." I felt the blush rising slowly up my breasts and blossoming over my face, but strangely, it wasn't embarrassment I was feeling – it was excitement.

He gave my lips a quick kiss and picked me up again, carrying me over to where his coat lay draped over a stack of loose hay and laying me gently down on top of it. I nestled back into straw, breathing in the scent of the grass and the sun and _him_. He knelt between my legs, taking the time to admire me as he unbuttoned and removed his shirt. I reached up to his bare shoulders and pulled him down to me, desperate for contact. He kissed along my collarbone as his hand traveled up the inside of my thigh, and my breath caught in my throat as it made its way into the gap in my drawers. Every muscle in my body tensed and I groaned aloud as his thumb swept a leisurely arc over my most sensitive spot. "Like that?" he asked wickedly, his other hand engaged in trying to free my breasts from my corset and chemise.

"Yes," I whined and he stroked me faster, his thumb settling into a bewitching rhythm that soon had me gasping and wriggling beneath him. He managed to pull down my undergarments enough to expose one nipple, which he gathered between his lips to suck as his hand played me like an instrument, the strings of which were strung taut to near the point of bursting.

"Yes, more," I begged him, and he complied. My head fell to the side and I buried my nose in his coat, the scent of wool and pine and tobacco cloyingly sweet and thick around me. My chest and lungs ached as they strained hard against the stays of the corset with each deep, hungry breath, and then I was flying above that wild field, soaring higher and higher towards the blinding heat of the sun… All of a sudden I was crashing down to earth as a wave of ecstasy broke over me, my every fiber pulsing with pleasure as it washed down over my body. James withdrew his hand to unfasten his pants as I lay there tingling, one hand over my chest to stay my racing heart. I cried out again when James plunged into me, but I was in anything but pain. He drove into me harder and faster than he had before, his need for me outweighing any thought of gentleness. I took him in greedily, my fingers digging into his back, marveling at the way his muscles tightened and twisted with his effort. I wrapped my arms and legs around his body, urging him towards his own release. All at once he uttered a throaty sound and sought my mouth for a kiss, his body shuddering to a stop above me as he met his own blissful end. _He is mine_, I thought, _as surely as I am his._

"I love you," he repeated almost wondrously.

"I know," I reassured him, feathering my fingers down his bare arms, trying to memorize his every angle. We lay like that some moments longer, simply basking in the other's presence.

After a moment he spoke again. "You have to leave," he said with regret, stroking back a loose strand of my hair.

"No," I said, resolute. "I'm staying with you."

"You can't," he said, pulling away from me and reaching for his shirt. "Vicky… you'll be killed."

I sat up with a start. "Killed?" I repeated, my voice tight with panic. "What do you mean? Laurent promised that I'd be kept safe as long as my father signed the deed away to Delgado! That was the trade!"

"Darling, there _is_ no trade," he groaned, hanging his head. "Once your father signs the deed, there are no more guarantees for your safety. You have to get away from here as soon as possible. As far away as you can."

"But – what about my parents? _What about you?_" I reached for him desperately, my head dizzy with fear. _Oh God, what about him!_

He found my dress and brought it to me, helped me pull it over my unwilling head. "Here, take this." He pulled a wad of paper money and a folded piece of paper from his pocket and thrust it into my hand. "And take my horse. If you need help, go to this address – but _don't_ stay there longer than a week, do you hear?"

He helped me to my feet and I glanced at the address. "Washington? But that's so far away, James! Why don't you come with me?" I felt tears burning at the backs of my eyes again.

He finally looked at me, his mouth set in a grim line and his eyes weighted down with an unfathomable burden. "I can't."

"James, what have you gotten yourself into?" I asked, my stomach bottoming out with dread.

He looked away, unable to meet my eyes. He sighed heavily then, and replied in a thick voice, "I did what I had to in order to keep you safe, Vicky. No one will ever hurt you again."

"Don't leave me again," I said, tears now openly streaming down my face. "That will hurt me."

"Goodbye," he whispered, and walked out of the door.

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	11. Blood

**All Twilight characters are the property of Stephenie Meyer.**

**Thanks to all my amazing and dedicated readers, your encouraging words really help me push this story along on schedule :)**

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**Blood**

_James' POV_

Walking away from that barn, it felt almost as if a weight were being simultaneously lifted from my chest and dropped back down again. I almost couldn't believe what I'd said to Victoria - did I truly love her? I searched inside myself and - to my amazement - found that I did. I never set out to, of course, but somehow it just... happened. I understand you can't just stumble into love as you might into a mud puddle, but there it was. I was in love with Victoria, and by her words and her devotion she was certainly in love with me. The thought fluttered about unfettered in my gut for all of five seconds before the memory of what I had to do next slapped me back to reality. There wasn't time for love; there was barely time for living. I clenched and unclenched my hands unconsciously as I walked back to the ranch house, slowly, but with purpose. I was a man walking to his own execution, but I can promise you that I'd choose to do the same again and again to keep my Victoria from harm.

I reached the front door and put my hand on the knob. As far as I was concerned, I was already dead.

Before I could turn the knob, the door swung open and the vampire called Laurent stood before me. He was the most unsettling of the monsters, in my opinion - likely because he was unapologetically polite most of the time. I was told that he was the one who looked after Victoria in my absence, and for that I was both grateful and begrudging of him.

He smiled at me, his dazzling white teeth somewhat more frightening than Benito's for their sincerity. "Did you dispatch the little _mademoiselle_?" he asked, cocking his handsome head to the side with a knowing look that told me he knew exactly how intimate her send-off had been.

I suppressed a scowl and ground out my terse reply: "She's gone. Are they almost done in there?"

Laurent nodded and stepped aside to let me pass over the threshold. Once inside the house I looked around for Benito and found him seated opposite Childress at the dining table, watching the pen in Childress' hand hungrily as it moved in slow, deliberate strokes over the deed stretched out between them. When it was finished, Childress pushed back from the table defiantly, and his eyes found me.

"You," he said, directing an accusatory finger at me. "What did you do with my daughter?"

I had to bite back the sudden flare of rage I felt when the word 'daughter' passed his thick, chapped lips. Since when had he earned the right to parental concern? And as he was certainly no longer in any position of authority over _me_, I was in no hurry to answer his ridiculous question. I crossed my arms instead and glanced to Benito, whose mouth had turned up at one corner in amusement.

"Go on, James," Benito said, his smirk widening to a grin. I could tell he was enjoying Childress' and my mutual repulsion from one another. "Tell him what you did to _his daughter_."

If Benito told me, then so I would do - and with relish. I cracked my knuckles impulsively and looked sideways to Benito for approval. "Are you finished with him?" I asked grimly, a strange tingling sensation building in my chest. Anticipation.

Benito nodded. "He's all yours."

That was all the encouragement I needed.

I turned once more back to Childress, who flinched at the hungry look in my eyes. "What did you do to her?" he asked, but this time with less resolve.

"Nothing you hadn't already tried," I snarled. "Except she _likes_ it when _I_ try to fuck her."

Childress' face turned a brilliant shade of scarlet and he stood up quickly, knocking his chair back onto the floor with the force of his outrage. "How dare you suggest...!" he started to protest, but I cut him off with a decisive shove to his chest. He fell backwards against the wall, knocking his head on one of the brass sconces fixed over the buffet. He sat there dazed for a moment, staring with gaped-jaw at me as I stalked ever closer towards him.

"Do you know how disgusting you are?" I spat out as I approached him. I felt hot anger spreading up from my gut, radiating through my limbs and up to my temples, where they settled into a livid throb. "Feeling up your own daughter? Your own flesh and blood? All she ever wanted was for you to protect her and to love her, you sick fuck."

"I do love her!" he shouted back at me, raising a cautious hand to the back of his head and finding blood on his fingertips. The vampires moved a step closer, their eyes visibly darkened as the faint scent of fresh blood wafted towards them. Childress shot a nervous glance at them and started sliding along the wall away from them, towards the fireplace.

"Like you loved her mother?" I sneered, taunting him with quick jabs of my fingers to his chest. "Like you loved all your other women? Is that how you like it? Use them up, bleed them dry, and them throw them out in the gutter to rot?"

Childress swallowed hard, feeling around blindly with one hand for an avenue of escape – or a weapon. He grabbed for an iron poker, but I snatched it out of his hand and threw it across the room, where it shattered the glass front of a china cabinet with a loud crash. Benito laughed and clapped his hands, clearly enjoying this. Childress winced and held up his hands in defense before him. "I don't know what you're talking about, Jim. I loved Victoria's mother, too. She died of natural causes – weren't nothing I could have done about it! Now let's just settle down a minute..."

"Like you loved _his_ mother?" Benito chimed in, his face alight with blood lust, his sharpened teeth just barely showing through his parted lips. Laurent, behind him, openly panted with his excitement for the kill, casting furtive glances between Benito and myself, wondering if he might be allowed to take part in the violence.

Childress looked sharply at Benito, all the color draining from his face. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Ask your son," Benito replied with a sinister grin and a shrug of his shoulders.

Childress turned, gaping at me. "My _son_?"

I looked back at him darkly, the very term setting my blood to boil. "Stepson, actually. But of course you don't recognize me. We only met once before you shipped me off, and then you were drunk. But you're not drunk now. Why don't you take a good look?" I drawled out, coming to a stop just a few inches from him.

His eyes widened and then narrowed. "Y-you aren't..." he stuttered.

"I am," I assured him, jerking my hand up to grip his bloated throat, the grizzled stubble of his wrinkled skin prickling my palm. "I was Tess Landry's son... until you killed her. Just like you tried to kill your own daughter."

Thus were his crimes laid out.

Understanding dawned in his clouded eyes and he started to struggle, but I stopped him with a stomp to his instep and a knee to his groin. "No!" he groaned then, his weight sagging back against the wall; the only thing keeping him erect was my tightened fist about his neck, the knuckles of which were turning white with effort. "I didn't..." he croaked.

His defense was offered.

"You did..." I growled, leaning closer. "You tried to burn her alive, _you monster_."

"Wasn't... me..." he choked out, his face turning a hideous shade of purple.

"Liar!" I shouted. I squeezed his throat harder, feeling his trachea beginning to crush beneath my grasp. Childress' mouth opened and closed reflexively in the futile search for air; his eyes bulged and looked ahead vaguely, seemingly right through me. He looked like a gasping fish plucked from water and wriggling on a sun bleached dock, begging for his misery to be ended. I felt a growl rise up in my throat, my body fair electrified with rage. I wanted him to suffer - as my mother had suffered disease and poverty and death in a foreign land, as Victoria had suffered humiliation and anguish under his sexual perversion, as I had suffered helplessness as an onlooker, powerless to save either one of them but forced to watch their misery slowly unfold. Now it was Childress lying helpless, completely subordinate to my mercy - should it come. But we were far past the point of mercy.

"Do it," Benito hissed, his icy grip suddenly on my shoulder. I heard Laurent's impatient growl behind me as he steadily moved closer, anxious for the kill.

His sentence was issued.

I had come this far, and found myself unable or unwilling to turn back now. I grabbed suddenly for the Bowie knife at my belt and in one motion pulled it from its sheath and drove it hard into Childress' gut. I let out a savage cry of victory as it sank home just under his rib cage. He screamed - the sound of it smothered by my choking fist - expending the last of the air in his lungs. I twisted the knife in and up, ensuring those lungs would never carry air again. He stopped struggling then, his eyes frozen open in a glassy-eyed stare off into some distant plane of existence. And it was done. Donald Childress was dead. I let his body sink heavily to the floor, and suddenly there came the sounds of screaming and snarling as Benito and Laurent both pushed me bodily aside to feast on the yet warm blood now spilling freely from Childress' body. I stood aside and watched, raising one steady hand to my face to wipe back the sweat that had gathered there. The hand, I noticed, was dripping with blood. I brought one cautious finger to my lips, venturing the tiniest of tastes with my curious tongue. My senses buzzed alive as the coppery, bitter drop sluiced down my throat. I closed my eyes and savored the taste of it.

My revenge.

"_James!_" a shrill scream rattled between my ears for what might have been the dozenth time. I jerked my head to the hall door and felt sick at the sight.

_Victoria_.

She had crumpled to her knees, her whole body wracked with sobs, and she clung to the doorframe with shaking arms to steady herself. "What have you _done?_" she managed to whisper, her lips white and trembling as she regarded the scene before her in horror. She tilted her face up to regard me with equal revulsion, her soft brown eyes overflowing with tears and judgment.

My damnation.

I took a step toward her, but she was up in an instant and fleeing from me, the long voluminous skirts of her ball gown bunched up between her clenched fists. I looked down and realized I was still holding the bloody knife in my hand. I cast it aside and took off after her. I found her in the parlor, rousing her stepmother, who had been forgotten where she lay unconscious on the settee.

"We have to go. _Now_," Victoria was telling her stepmother frantically, who was looking up and around herself with alarm, as if she just realized that she hadn't dreamed up a house full of vampires after all. Victoria tugged on her stepmother's arm anxiously, the disgusting sounds of the vampires devouring her father's corpse echoing ominously from across the hall.

"Vicky, you weren't supposed to..." I started to say. Of course she shouldn't have seen that. For fuck's sake, why hadn't she just left when I told her to?

"Stay away from me," she said, her flimsy voice belying her stern words. I stopped in the doorway, unsure what to do next. Her stepmother was finally persuaded to stand, and Victoria flung one of her arms around her own neck to support her as the pair began to stumble towards the front door.

I trailed after her and opened my mouth to apologize, but realized I had no desire to defend myself. Her father had been a cruel, selfish bastard – surely she of all people would acknowledge that he deserved to be punished? "He hurt you, Vicky. He hurt a lot of people. He was not a good man," I argued. I felt anger rising in my chest again.

"He was _my_ _father_ for Christ's sake, James," she snapped, her voice breaking with another sob. "_You killed my father._"

I moved forward to comfort her, to take her into my arms and reassure her, to tell her I loved her... but she shrank away from me, shuffling past me to the hall. She and her stepmother reached the front door and started to hobble down the steps as quietly as they could, casting fearful glances back over their shoulders at the vampires.

And at me. Victoria was scared of _me_, I realized. She thought I was a monster – and maybe I was, but couldn't she see I did this as much for her as I did for myself?

"Wait, Vicky," I cried hoarsely, following after them onto the front porch. I reached for Victoria's arm and she shrugged me off, rounding on me in anger.

She glared up at me with a look of such malice that I stopped dead in my tracks. "Don't you touch me," she bit out through gritted teeth, her eyes aflame with a cruelty they'd never possessed before. "I don't want you to touch me ever again."

Stunned, I let her go. I felt my hopes sinking further and further as I watched her help her stepmother mount my pinto horse and then climb on herself. She held her stepmother's waist with one hand and gathered the reins in the other.

"Vicky, please..." I protested weakly, knowing deep down that she was already as good as lost to me.

"Good-bye, James," she replied coolly, spurring the horse forward as best as she could and leading it from the yard. The horse knew better than she when was a time for fleeing, and he sensed the vampires as keenly as if he'd seen them. Needing very little encouragement from his riders, he bolted off in a run, quickly disappearing beyond the bend in the road.

Dumbfounded, I watched them go, my mouth hanging open stupidly as I saw the girl I loved running away from me. Unwanted tears pricked the backs of my eyes; an unsolicited shudder shook through my body. My heart would have broken had it not already been calcified over these long bitter years in search of revenge - hardened over with hatred, snapped in twain between anger and injury, and iced over with callous indifference. For what it was worth, Victoria could take what was left of my dead heart with her – I hoped she'd find a better use for it than I ever did.

A sound behind me at the door roused me and I cleared my throat, willing my heart to stop pounding and my hands to stop shaking. I turned and caught sight of Laurent striding onto the porch, wiping his mouth with a silk handkerchief he'd produced from his tailored waistcoat.

"Did _Mademoiselle_ Victoria leave already?" he asked unnecessarily, gazing out across the darkened yard. "I thought she'd come back to stay."

"She doesn't want anything to do with me anymore," I told him, suppressing the tone of defeat in my voice.

"Trust me - it is better this way," he said cryptically.

We both turned at the sound of more footsteps and admitted the addition of Benito to our _tête-à-tête_. We three stood there for a moment in quiet reflection, the only sound or movement was the soft rattling of my ragged breath, creating warm puffs of vapor in the cold night air as it rose ever upwards. Finally, Benito turned to me with an approving smile.

"You did very well, James," he told me, clapping a cold hand on my shoulder. "Wouldn't you say so, Laurent?"

Laurent nodded in agreement. "He did."

"I can't say that I've ever seen a human kill with such deadly ferocity – have you?"

"No, indeed not, _monsieur_."

"And most skillfully done, as well," Benito mused, rubbing my shoulder with admiration.

I didn't know how to answer such high praise, and so I remained silent, a million thoughts and regrets racing around my throbbing head. My chest ached to the point of bursting with what might have been guilt or grief. I had killed a man. I had killed the only father I could ever claim. I was a murderer, and that wasn't the worst of it – I wasn't even sorry for killing Childress. I knew he deserved it. As much as I knew I deserved whatever was going to happen to me now.

"And now I think it's time for you to claim your reward, James," Benito said, taking my hand and turning me to face him. He pulled me towards him, wrapping an arm about my waist as a lover, tilting my head to lean against his shoulder, rubbing his other hand up and down my back comfortingly, as you would to a frightened child.

"My reward?" I asked, bewildered yet completely numbed to surprise by this point. I settled into his embrace against what little remained of my will and better judgment, somehow finding comfort in his dead embrace. But I hated him. I hated him for driving Victoria away. I hated him for what he'd made me do. I hated myself for letting him.

"Shhh..." he said softly. "You'll see." He slid his hand up my back tenderly until it reached the back of my neck. "It will hurt at first, but you'll see."

"What will hurt?" I asked, too drained of emotion to be afraid. Over Benito's shoulder, I saw the grave face of Laurent as he shook his head slowly from side to side in either disapproval or sympathy. I could muster no answering expression, and instead just closed my eyes, letting Benito's intoxicating presence wash over me, calming me, putting me gently down to sleep...

"This," he replied succinctly, opening his mouth over my throat.

He bit me.

From that moment on there was only pain – fiery and white hot in its intensity as it blinded me and knocked me to the ground. I was dimly aware of my own screaming as the vicious poison trickled through my veins and through my body, paralyzing me as surely as it tortured me. It could not cripple my mind of thought, however, and I was privileged with the consciousness of every searing flash of pain as it shot through me, killing me. As I lay there dying, my pulse roaring in my ears, I'd like to say I thought only of my love for Victoria, but as it was I thought mostly of myself, and of all the mistakes I'd made along the way to lead me to this demise. As I choked out my final breaths, I could faintly make out Benito by my side, holding my hand and muttering any number of soothing words to appease me. At long last, as suddenly as it had begun some twenty-odd years before, my heart stopped beating.

If only I had truly died.

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	12. Burden

**All Twilight characters are the property of Stephenie Meyer.**

**Without further ado...**

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**Burden**

_Victoria's POV_

That night seemed like the longest of my life. Surely the air had never been so cold, surely the road had never been so dark, and surely my heart had never hurt like this. Our pace was agonizing as our horse picked its way over the dark, bumpy road, and I kept my arms wrapped tightly around my stepmother in an effort to keep warm and to prevent her from toppling off our mount, shaking as she was. We were both upset, cold, and scared – and as a result we said not a word to each other the whole of the night. At long last, just as the sun was beginning to crest over the looming peak of Mount Shasta, we reached the town. Once there I immediately surrendered the horse and some of our money – what little we had between us, the whole of which was given to me by James in the barn – in exchange for passage north to Washington in a stagecoach. The tickets were nearly fifty dollars apiece, but with the addition of the pinto horse I managed to convince the driver to take us for fifty dollars in total. James had been generous to me, but starting a life from scratch requires considerable capital, and ours was in short supply.

The stage driver, I gathered, took us to be prostitutes. If he hadn't accepted my bargain with the horse, I know not what he would have asked for in compensation, nor whether we would have been desperate enough to accommodate him. I can't say that I blame him – there we were: two unaccompanied women of no little beauty who could not even claim a remote familial relation to one another, and furthermore we were dressed in silk ball gowns and slippers. But it only took a measure of coin to convince him to let us board, and afterwards we rode the rest of the way to Washington in relative peace. The coach was already noisy and crowded, but we had the front bench to ourselves and remained unmolested for the most part during the journey. The thin canvas walls provided little insulation against the bitter cold outside, but the number of bodies inside worked to our advantage, providing a meager amount of warmth that we supplemented with the dirty buffalo blankets the driver provided us. They smelled of unwashed bodies and tobacco, but they were warm and so we accepted them gratefully. I was exhausted after our night in hell and more than willing to put my frantic mind out of its misery, and I finally slipped into a restless doze. The coach rocked and jolted on while I slept, stopping only to change horses and drivers along the way.

When I awoke some hours later, I found my stepmother had been crying. When she saw that I was waking she hastily dabbed at her swollen eyes with her sleeve.

"Shh..." I said, taking her hands into mine comfortingly. "I know."

"But you don't know," she said through a lingering sniffle. "I have no right to cry at all – I'm so ashamed of myself..." She broke off into another sob and I waited patiently for her to continue. She looked down as she spoke up again: "You'll hate me if I say it, but these are selfish tears."

"You're grieving," I said, my brow furrowing with concern. "As am I. You have every right to cry – it's not selfish."

"No," she said, shaking her head as her chest took in another trembling breath. "I'm not sad, I'm... relieved."

I looked at her with wide eyes and tried to guess her meaning. "You mean that we've escaped from the vampires?" I asked in an undertone with a wary eye at our fellow passengers, who were all mercifully asleep. I understood her relief, if that's what she meant – and how could we not be relieved on that account? After weeks of imprisonment and torture we were finally on our way to freedom, however uncertain.

"Yes," she said with a nod, but her eyes remained lowered. "But also that we have escaped your father."

I was stunned by her words, and a few tears of my own slipped down my cheeks. Yes, we had escaped. For years he had abused us both, and now we would never need worry about him harming us again.

"It's so wicked of me to say, I know," she said when I made no reply, her face lined deeply with sorrow. "I know you loved him, Victoria, but he made me so miserable." She started crying again, and we clung to each other for many moments, trying to find comfort in the other's misery.

I knew the truth of her words, and I couldn't blame her for her feelings when mine were just as wicked. In truth, I was less upset at losing my father than I was about losing James. How could one wrong overturn months of rights? He had been my savior and my strength these past months – my hope. Could I still love him now, even if he was a murderer? I could and I yet did, though it pained me.

"Where are we going?" my stepmother asked finally, her tears having run their course. She wiped her eyes and looked out the window at the mountains in the distance.

"Seattle," I answered her, naming a prominent lumber town on the Pacific coast of the Washington territory - but she already knew as much from the directions I gave the driver.

"I know that," she said patiently, assuming the tone she used to take with me when she was still my governess. "But why are we going there? We don't know anyone there, and we don't have any money." She began to worry her bottom lip between her teeth as she considered our situation.

"We have a little money," I said quietly. I produced the wad of bills that James had given me, to which she raised an eyebrow.

"I was beginning to wonder how you paid for our fare," she said. "Where did you get that? The vampires already cleaned out your father's safe." She eyed me with curiosity, but without judgment.

It was my turn to be ashamed, and as much as I was loathe to tell her, I finally admitted after some coaxing. "James Wilder gave it to me. He's the one who suggested we go to Seattle."

She simply stared at me for a few moments, her voice dumbed by shock. "How long have you been involved with him?" she asked with a bewildered expression.

"Almost since summer," I whispered, bowing my head to hide the blush that spread over my cheeks. "But as you can imagine, there's no future in that now. Now that he k-killed father." I felt my eyes begin to burn again with tears, but none came.

My stepmother thought on that before answering, nodding slowly as she put the pieces together in her mind. How she must think of me! To have lain in the arms of the man who murdered my father – and to have accepted his money and advice! But I knew – and perhaps she did as well – that even if I had no future with James, that I had a future at all was entirely his gift of sacrifice to me. If he hadn't sold his soul to the vampires in whatever fashion that he did, perhaps my stepmother and I would still be in the basement of the ranch house, collecting dust in a pool of our own blood.

"And to think I was trying to push you to marry a vampire," she said finally, to which we both laughed awfully – a nervous, mirthless laugh pent up over weeks of strain. Once we started laughing we found that we could not stop. We laughed until our sides ached and the other passengers stirred and looked up to see what all the fuss was about. Thus chastised, we dissolved into demented giggles and hiccups until the other passengers closed their eyes again, and we resolved ourselves to try to sleep once more, our heads rested together in communion.

What a change this was! After years of hatred and bitterness we had finally come to regard each other as friends – as family. And it only took the death of the one link between us to achieve it. From that day forward I never called her "mother" again, and neither did she expect me to. We were two independent women, clinging to one another as we walked alone in a man's world. But what were the dangers of traveling in the wilderness of men in comparison to being caged up with monsters?

We reached Seattle after a week's time and were unceremoniously ushered from the coach so that it could be serviced before its next destination. I was immediately struck by the novelty of our surroundings. The air was so different from California – it was somewhat warmer, wetter, and overpowered with the pleasant smell of pine chips and wood-burning stoves. Everywhere people were hurrying along the busy town streets dotted with offices and shops. It almost felt like being in Boston again, but all the buildings here were made of wood instead of brick. Our fancy gowns caused a few heads to turn, but most bustled along about their own business with little care for the strange sight we must present. We were faint with hunger, having only grabbed what snacks we could at stations along the way, horribly ungroomed and near delirious with lack of sleep. Furthermore, I suspected Mandy – for such I called her now – was developing a fever, as much as she shivered. We wandered the station in a daze, savoring the two sweet rolls we bought with tiny nibbles to make them last until we might find somewhere to have a real meal. It was such a relief to stretch our legs and warm our muscles, despite the anxiety we both felt at being alone in a new place. We continued walking along the platform in this manner until a kindhearted man who appeared to work for the stage company approached us and asked if we needed directions. Mandy turned to me, completely giving up the reins for once in her life.

"Well," she said, "Where are we going, Victoria?"

"To La Push," I said to her and the kindly employee. "To see a Mr. Silas Black."

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I say with some certainty (judging by the look on his face) that we were the last two people on earth that Silas Black expected to see.

The employee at the stage station had directed us to the harbor, where we met an Indian boy with some sort of elongated fishing boat he hired out as a ferry between his hometown of La Push and the big city. The boat appeared to be fashioned from a single hunk of wood, possessed neither sail nor rudder, and was elaborately carved with various tribal designs I took to be typical of his culture. The young man was hesitant to bring us back to his native Quileute lands until we showed him the scrap of paper James had given me with Silas' name and address written in his own hand. Apparently the name seemed familiar to the boy, because he didn't ask us any more questions about our purpose in visiting, opting instead to prattle on about the weather and Seattle current events while pointing out various natural features as we skimmed along the coast. It was truly breathtaking scenery, and it was clear that this young man was very proud to call this place home. Even the ruckus from the mills and the factories and the busy harbor could not detract from the majestic wonder of the rocky cliffs, spilling over with verdant greenery, and the intensely blue water of the ocean, roaring against the shore with the tide. The ease and speed with which the boy was able to paddle his vessel astounded me, and I closed my eyes to better enjoy the sea breeze that swept across my face as we sped along. I didn't realize how much I'd missed the water since we'd moved to Canyon Ridge, but even the rank, fishy odor of the boat's hollowed out bottom brought back nostalgic memories of my old life in Boston. Mandy drifted off to sleep again as the boat moved along, the gentle rocking of the ocean proving too much temptation for her weary body to resist. Truly, she was not looking well, and had I not known what she had experienced in the weeks before I might have mistaken her for sea-sick. I feared it was something much more serious.

We arrived at the little harbor in La Push to the curious (and somewhat suspicious) stares of the local fishermen, who of course turned their heads to see two white women outfitted more suitably for a ball than a jaunt in a fishing boat. Our ferryman called out to them in their native tongue, the meaning of which was lost on me but for the words "Silas Black". The men seemed to relax after his explanation, and admitted us to shore without question.

"I'll show you to Silas," our guide said, not leaving our side for a moment. We thanked him heartily, and he even offered his arm to Mandy, who was still wobbly from her nap on the boat. Luckily, Silas lived not far from the harbor. After a moment's walk on the path we were led to a small wooden house with a splendid view of the ocean. The door fell open beneath our knock, and Silas' jaw fell open with it.

"_Mrs. Childress?_" he said with incredulity. He dropped the fishing lures he'd been repairing and hastily wiped his hands on the front of his jeans. "And Miss Childress? I- What- ... do come him," he said, stepping aside and gesturing to the sitting area just inside.

The room was small, but cozily warm from the fire burning in the corner fireplace. We gratefully took a seat on the furniture, which appeared to be produced locally from the pine in the mills. It smelled sweet and was generously cushioned with various hand-dyed fabrics in complex geometric patterns such as I'd never seen before. The light inside was dim, and so at first I didn't realize that across the room in the kitchen area sat a woman and a small boy. They stared at us, but didn't utter a word. Silas said something to them in a low voice and they left the room, taking the basket of beans they were shucking with them onto the porch.

"You have a lovely family," I said in a hoarse voice.

Silas turned back to us, and I sympathized with his confusion. We had barely spoken before this day, and the sight of us at his door must have come as an incomprehensible shock. "Excuse my impertinence, ladies, but could you tell me what you're doing here?" He didn't know whether to be worried for our well-being or his own.

I made sure that Mandy was settled comfortably in front of the fire before answering him. "James Wilder told us we ought to come here should we need help. Mr. Black, I'm sorry to trouble you, but we are in desperate need of help." I handed him the scrap of paper with his address by means of verifying my claim.

He took the paper and examined it in wonder. "What kind of help do you need? What happened?"

It was a long story, but I figured I'd better tell him as much of it as I honestly could if I expected any assistance from him. I told him about the vampires who had posed as workmen and how they had imprisoned us in our own home. I told him about how we had been locked in the basement and abused until the day my father and his men returned. Finally, I told him with a shaking voice, "And then they killed my father." I bowed my head, sorry for omitting the name of the true murderer, but unwilling to blacken James' name to someone he obviously thought of us a friend. Now I would be burdened with his guilt as much as he was.

Silas' face transformed from shock, to horror, and at last to something like grief. "I am very sorry for your loss," he said sincerely. "But I don't understand why Wilder would send you here rather than send you somewhere else – or why he would send you anywhere at all. I don't mean to be rude, but why was it his concern?"

Mandy spoke up then in my defense, albeit weakly. "That's not your business. Just know that for whatever reason he chose to stay behind in exchange for our freedom."

Silas looked a little taken aback at Mandy's severity, and I interjected, "We have nowhere else to go. We were so afraid that the vampires would follow us that we wanted to get as far away as possible. I think James thought that we would be safest in a place where we have no connections, so the vampires would not think to look for us there."

Silas started pacing, and I sensed a bit of his temper had flared. "So he thought to lead them to my home instead?"

"Oh no!" I cried, rising to my feet. "No, Mr. Black! No one knows we've come here except for James, and he would never tell!"

Silas spun about to face me, and I could tell he was trying to control his annoyance. "Unless he were made to tell. Or unless he wanted to tell. You left him alone with in a den of monsters. They could torture the information out of him if they wanted, or they could turn him and simply ask him."

I sank back to my seat and felt my hands begin to shake. "What do you mean – 'turn' him?"

"Turn him into a vampire, of course!" Silas said, wringing his hands in an effort to calm down. "You have to understand that when humans are turned into vampires – they lose that part of them that made them human. They don't have the same conscience anymore, even where friends or family are concerned. A new vampire might rip apart his own mother before he recognized her. There's no telling if Wilder will remember to keep your secret or not."

My heart began to pound as he spoke and I suddenly felt sick. James – a vampire? I was too horrified by such a possibility to even consider it. And even if he were made to be such a monster against his will, surely he would never betray us? Surely a part of him would still love me? One corner of my mind began to hum with a niggling doubt, and the words from the Byron poem taunted me:

_There from thy daughter, sister, wife,_

_At midnight drain the stream of life..._

I shivered.

"I am truly sorry, Mr. Black. I had not... considered such a gruesome possibility. I understand now that I have brought unnecessary danger onto your family and I apologize for that. We will leave at once and not trouble you further," I said, tears springing to my eyes. Our last hope in the world was dashed. We had a little money, but not enough. And with no connections or associations in this new place, so far removed from everything that we knew, what would become of us? I gathered my buffalo blanket and reached down to help Mandy from her seat, but found that she could not stand.

"Miss Childress, wait..." Silas said, softening his expression. "I do not mean to turn you out like this."

"Mandy, we must go," I said quietly, but she still could not stand.

"She doesn't look so good," he said, not meaning to give offense but showing real concern. "I should send for the doctor."

"No, thank you, but we couldn't trouble you to..." I started to say, but Mandy cut me off.

"Yes," she said with a raspy voice. "Please. Hurry."

The doctor, it turned out, was a woman – a catchall healer, midwife, and spiritual leader, second only to her father, who was the chief of this chapter of the tribe. I was told that there was also a white doctor to be found some miles inland, but as that would require moving Mandy, Silas had decided it best to have their own healer have a look at her first. She was a quiet woman, polite in her attentions to my mother but otherwise silent. I later learned that this was because she spoke little English, but from the attention she paid me when I described what had befallen us I suspected it had more to do with her pride than her linguistic abilities. Silas stayed in the room for a while to serve as translator, but left when the woman asked that I help remove Mandy's clothing. The woman gasped and tutted over the multitude of bite marks covering my former stepmother's arms and torso, and she snapped at her young assistant to bring her a salve to put on them. The assistant gaped at the bite marks with wide eyes, but set to gently rubbing the salve onto them while the healer continued her examination.

"Hurt here?" the woman asked, pointing a finger at one of the bite wounds that had already begun to scar over.

Mandy shook her head against the pillows. "Not much anymore."

"Where hurt?" the woman insisted.

"My head," Mandy said, squeezing her eyes shut and raising a hand to her temple. "It hurts so much. And I'm so tired."

The woman nodded and continued her assessment, feeling Mandy's forehead for her temperature, checking her tongue for anything unusual, feeling her glands and prodding her abdomen for any swollen organs. When she was finished she turned to me.

"Bad fever," she said with a sigh, helping Mandy into a clean dress belonging to Silas' wife.

"How bad?" I asked, beginning to worry. I cast a glance at Mandy's pale face, damp with sweat.

"She live," the healer assured me, putting a comforting hand on my arm. "You sick?" she asked, raising a hand to my forehead.

"No," I told her. "Just tired."

"Sit," the woman said, leading me to a chair. The healer insisted on giving me a full examination as well. I would have protested, but to be honest I hadn't felt fully myself in weeks. I was sure it was just the stress of imprisonment and then being stuck in a cold stagecoach for nearly a week, but I didn't want to be impolite if she was offering to help me. The assistant helped me remove my dress and spent a few moments quietly admiring it. It was a beautiful dress, I had to admit – Makenna and Mary had excellent taste, even for monsters – but I knew that looking at it ever again would be much too painful.

"Keep it," I told her with a faint smile. "It's yours."

The assistant looked from the dress to me with confusion and turned to the healer, who interpreted what I had said to the best of her ability. The young assistant grinned and bobbed her head in thanks, setting the dress aside with the greatest of reverence. They laid me back on the kitchen table, and began to look me over and prod me in the same manner as they had Mandy. After examining me, the woman turned to me with a grave expression. She opened her mouth to try to explain something, but then closed it after a few stammering words when she realized she lacked the vocabulary to do so. The healer handed me a clean dress and gestured for me to put it on while she went to fetch Silas back.

Silas returned with his wife, who was bearing a jug of hot tea and wooden cups, charmingly carved with the same patterns that appeared on the fishing vessel in which we'd arrived. I helped Mandy drink some of her tea while the healer explained her findings to Silas so that he could interpret them for us.

"Your stepmother has a bad fever, and her body is very weak. She should rest in bed for at least a week and drink the medicine that the healer will give you," Silas said, taking a cup of tea from his wife with a smile. "Thankfully you were not on your own for much longer, or it might have been a lot worse."

"Thank you so much," I said, turning to the healer. "We can pay you for the medicine."

The healer did not look at me, but muttered something quickly to Silas, who looked surprised. He turned to me hesitantly and said, "She also told me to tell you that you need to be very careful. And you may want to see another doctor soon, whenever you leave us."

"Why?" I asked, trying not to become alarmed. "Am I ill?"

Silas exchanged another look with the healer and then lowered his eyes with embarrassment. "Miss Childress, I'm sorry to have to be so blunt, but... she says that you are with child."

I nearly dropped the cup in my hands. Mandy was spared no such compunction, and _did_ drop hers. I was with child? With _James'_ child? My chest heaved and suddenly I felt as though I was trying to breathe underwater. I brought a hand to my fluttering heart and tried to catch my breath. An unearthly wail seized me from the inside and I began to sob in earnest, collapsing forward onto my knees. Mandy, bless that woman, pulled my hand into her clammy grasp and raised a palm to my back to comfort me.

"Oh, Victoria," she said sadly, stroking my hopelessly tangled hair. "A shame your husband died before he knew of it. There, there... widows have babies all the time. We'll get through this."

I stopped crying for a moment and looked up at her with watery eyes. She regarded me with understanding and I loved her in that moment as if she were my real mother. I nodded and whispered slowly, wondering how best to play along, "Yes, it's a shame he died so suddenly."

Silas appeared to have swallowed his tongue, but finally regained his ability to speak. "I see," he said, clearing his throat. I cringed and imagined he saw me for what I truly was – a sinner and a liar. My stomach was so weighted down with lies and guilt and grief I couldn't stand it any longer. I stood up suddenly and fled the room, begging leave to get some air.

Mandy made to follow me, but the healer bade her stay seated. Instead it was Silas who followed me out onto the porch, where I stood with my forehead leaning against a wooden beam, gazing out over the ocean.

"Are you alright?" he asked awkwardly. Poor Silas, thrust into the role of protector and confidante for no other reason than his misfortune in knowing James.

"I'll be fine," I whispered, my eyes spilling over tears. Silas leaned against the railing and looked out over the water with me without speaking. For a long while there was only the sound of the surf and the wind. My eyes rested on a gull as it coasted low over the waves in search of food. He was free to fly anywhere in the world and yet he probably spent his entire life on this shore, returning each summer as surely as the tide to the sand.

"It's so beautiful here," I remarked by means of breaking the silence. "Why did you ever leave here to work for my father?"

"Fishing and woodworking are the only trades here. Everyone in our tribe does one or the other," he said with a shrug of his shoulders. "I wanted to make my own way and see the world for myself."

"But you come back," I said softly. "For your family."

"Yes."

"It isn't a burden? I mean to say, don't you regret that you can't travel freely?"

"Of course not," he said, sounding surprised. "They're my family."

I didn't answer him, silently contemplating my own burden of family I'd just discovered I was carrying. Nothing truly wants to be cut loose to float along alone, to be tossed about with each ebb and whim of the current. Things crave an anchor to cling to, as that bird clung to the shores of his home. The only anchor I had left to cling to was my guilt – guilt at betraying my father by falling in love with James, guilt at betraying James by leaving him to his doom, and guilt at betraying every moral standard I'd previously been instructed to obey. If this burden – if this baby – was to be my punishment for all these offenses I'd committed, then I would accept it.

Finally, Silas said softly, "It's Wilder's, isn't it?"

I looked down at my hands by way of answer, and he bowed his head in understanding.

"You can stay here for a few days," he continued. "My wife insists that you shouldn't have to leave so soon. We can't host you here forever, but we'd like to help you find your own way if we can."

"You are very kind," I said hollowly.

"It might be best for you and... your stepmother," he said, trying not to overstep what lines of propriety might remain, "...if you got a job. Do either of you have any skills that might help you find employment?"

"Mandy was a governess," I said absently. "And I'll do anything. I can sew a little, if that helps. I'll even clean house."

"There is a missionary here that visits our lands from time to time," Silas informed me. "I think he's starting a school in town and might be in need of teachers. I'll send for him tomorrow."

I expressed my gratitude again for the umpteenth time that day. He nodded in acknowledgement and made to go back inside, but for one nagging question on his mind.

"Miss Childress?" he asked.

"Yes?"

"What shall I call you... now that you're a widow?" he asked in a neutral tone.

I half-laughed to myself as I considered my answer. "Mrs. Wilder, I suppose," I said with a helpless shrug, for surely it couldn't be that far from the truth. The James I loved was likely dead by now, and I may as well give him the proper mourning that he deserved. Though he might not have been my husband in life, at least he could be mine in death.

Silas took his leave quietly, and I was left alone with my thoughts and the ocean.

* * *

**Thoughts or criticisms are very welcome!**


	13. Slave

**All Twilight characters are the property of Stephenie Meyer.**

**In answer to an anonymous reviewer from last chapter: No, I haven't read Villette, but I did enjoy the other Bronte sister works I've read - namely Wuthering Heights and Jane Eyre. Was there a particular reason you asked? **

**A note for the future: these chapters seem to be getting longer and longer and as a result are taking a bit more time to complete. The wait time between chapters may be more like 3 weeks than 2 weeks in the future. Thanks again to all who reviewed the last chapter – I hope you enjoy this one!**

* * *

**Slave**

_James' POV_

The first thing I became aware of was a bright, blinding light enveloping me. Everywhere it touched my skin it tingled and buzzed almost painfully, and it felt hot – uncommonly _hot_. I moved a limb experimentally and discovered that there was not a part of me that wasn't aching with the dull remnants of pain. I paused a moment, mentally taking stock of all my parts and collecting the will to sit up. When I finally moved forward I was amazed at how little effort the motion took, and the unexpected force of my strength upended me onto my face. I cautiously lifted myself off the ground, my palms tickling with the odd sensation of a thousand individual grains of sand pressing back against my skin. When I tried to move my leg up to a kneeling position I met with a heavy resistance at my ankle and the sound of a rattling chain. I cracked one eye open and a dagger of light swam in, blinding me. I shut my eyes again reflexively, but then forced myself to open them again. As my eyes adjusted to the piercing brightness, I turned to see my ankle secured in a shackle, which was in turn staked to the ground with a railroad spike. I looked up again at my surroundings and could now see that I was in the middle of a flat expanse of dry, brittle ground, mercilessly beaten down upon by the sun's rays. In the far distance I could make out the bristly tops of trees and the craggy peaks of mountains. I was in a desert – that was plain enough. But beyond that I could not even venture to guess where I was or how I'd arrived there.

"You awake, Wilder?" a voice rasped behind me.

I snapped my head around faster than I thought humanly possible and was surprised to see a man lying not far from me, staked to the ground by a shackle like mine. The skin around his face was red and raw and his lips were cracked and swollen from exposure. If the dirty, matted state of his blond hair was any indication, he'd been out here for quite some time. I detected an overpowering odor of sweat and filth coming off of him and made a conscious effort to hold my breath. "Do I know you?" I asked, and my voice came out unexpectedly smooth.

He coughed hoarsely and turned his watery green eyes to look at me. "What the hell is wrong with you?" he said, his voice barely a whisper. "It's me – Ernie. Ernie McClellan."

I frowned and cocked my head to the side, considering the creature before me, who was as strange to me as our surroundings. "And you say we know each other?" I prodded.

"Of course we do," the man continued laboriously. "That blow to the head must've messed your head up good. You been asleep for three days! Those sons of bitches dragged us out here and left us to fucking rot..."

As he spoke I sat up and drew the knee of my chained leg towards me so I could get a better look at the shackle. For the life of me I couldn't remember anything that he was telling me. Three days? Who would have chained me out in the middle of the desert for three days? I looked blankly at the shackle. I couldn't think straight. My head was killing me and my throat was raw and burning with thirst. I felt sore and weak with hunger. When was the last time I'd had anything to eat or drink?

"Do you have any water?" I asked him.

He nodded slowly. "They didn't take my canteen from me. I got a bit left I was saving, but you probably need it more than me," he said, gesturing weakly to the canteen by his side. "Fuck knows it ain't going to do me much more good." He managed to clasp it, but found he lacked the strength to toss it over to me. "I... can't..." he said, his breath suddenly quickened with his strain. "Can you reach?"

I crawled towards him, wondering at the curious sensation of my muscles stretching and contracting as I moved forward. The aches in them were starting to fade and were instead replaced by an anticipatory kind of tightness – the kind of coiled up energy in a snake about to strike. I finally reached the man's side, the chain binding my ankle stretched to its full length.

"Are you feelin' OK, Wilder?" the man huffed. "You look a little pale."

I reached to take the canteen from him and caught a glimpse of my own hand in the process, which seemed to be glowing of its own accord. I raised it to my face and examined it in wonder, admiring how the light reflected and glittered over my skin. "Whoah," I whispered in awe.

"You better drink something," he said after another fit of coughing. "You look terrible. Your eyes are all red."

Not that I was willing to trust the health advice of a total stranger, but I had to admit I _felt_ terrible as well. I upended the canteen over my mouth, letting the scant few drops of water left in it drip down onto my lips. The water that reached my lips tasted sour, and I immediately spit it out. "What's wrong with this?" I asked, raising a hand to wipe the foul taste from my lips. Now I was really, _painfully_ thirsty – I felt as if I would burst if I didn't get something to drink right away.

"There ain't nothing wrong with it," he insisted. "Give it back if you don't want it."

"Don't you have anything else?" I asked, getting desperate. My head was starting to throb again and my throat felt as if it were on fire. I took a deep, calming breath, and every hair on my body stood on end as a delicious scent washed over me. I went completely still and took another breath, the tantalizing aroma sliding in and out of my lungs, teasing me. "...do you have food on you?" I asked, leaning closer to him.

"No," he admitted with a half-hearted shake of his head.

"Yes, you do," I accused, impulsively reaching for him and digging through his pockets.

"Hey – what the hell! I don't have any food!" he said, his pale green eyes wide with apprehension. "You've fucking gone off your rocker, Wilder. Get away from me!" But I persisted, turning him bodily onto his side to look in his back pockets. All I turned up was a crushed pack of matches and a dirty handkerchief. I was starting to panic. I knew there was food – I _knew_ it. I could actually _hear_ his heartbeat quicken pace as I pawed over him, his breathing become more labored. He tried to struggle away from me, and with the last of his quickly waning strength he struck back at me with his fist.

My hand shot up to intercept his before he'd barely raised it from his side. He cried out and buckled with pain almost immediately, and I was surprised to hear the crunching of bones. I turned to look quizzically at his wrist in my hand, his hand above it completely white from loss of circulation, the long bone of his forearm peeking out of his skin beneath my grip. I dropped his hand in horror, and suddenly a gush of blood appeared, thick and red as it soaked into the sand beneath him. I stared at it with fascination, its rich, buttery scent hitting me with full force. My mouth began to tingle and water, and some strange compulsion bade me pick up the battered limb and bring the open wound to my mouth.

The moment the blood touched my lips I was lost. I was oblivious to all further writhing or wailing from the man, so focused was I on the deliriously wonderful sensation of his blood easing down my throat, filling me with warmth and... _life._ The throbbing in my head and the aching in my limbs disappeared, replaced by a jubilant buoyancy. When at last there was no more left to drink, I was saddened, my euphoria replaced once more with growling emptiness. I needed more. I leaped to my feet, the movement causing a surge of pleasure in my stiffened legs and snapping the chain binding me in half. I raised my face to the wind, tasting it. My senses fair exploded with the multitude of smells and sounds I could detect. At last I picked one heartbeat out of a million and ran for it faster than I'd ever moved run before, my ears humming with the rush of wind flowing past them, the remaining chain still attached to my ankle shackle chasing steadily after me.

* * *

The ease with which I covered distance astounded me, but the more miles I ventured the more keenly I became aware of how aimless my direction was. At first I had followed the sound of a heartbeat and a scent that promised more fresh blood, but what had seemed so vivid and so close turned out to be much farther away than I had anticipated. By the time I'd reached the location of the heartbeat and dispatched of its source, my senses were piqued by another heartbeat, and then another, until my hunting and feeding blended together in a wild blur of space, time, and hunger.

Though I was not physically tired, eventually my mind grew weary and begged me to pause a moment to take in my surroundings. I had left the desert hours ago – or was it days? – and now found myself in the lush verdant forest up one side of a mountain, a few miles off a river if my ears did not deceive me. My thirst slaked for the moment, I began to consider what had happened to me. I could remember nothing prior to waking up in the desert. Come to think of it, I couldn't even remember my name. The unfortunate man chained next to me had called me "Wilder" – but the more I thought about it, the more I didn't think that name applied to me. I could tell that at one point I had been human, but now I felt like something much greater, much worse...

Lost in such musings as I was, I didn't notice the man standing before me.

I say "man", but I could tell by the unearthly glow about him and the absence of a heartbeat that he was like me. He seemed amused to see me, and a smile lit up his handsome features when I finally took notice of him in return.

"I see you have fed," he said, looking pleased. "You seem to have discovered that much on your own without trouble. _Très bon_."

I recalled the untold number of people I had slaughtered this morning and nodded. "Fed," I repeated, tasting the word in my mouth. "Yes."

He raised an eyebrow at me. "You seem unsure of yourself. Do you remember anything?"

I hesitated before answering, wondering if he could be trusted. What did I know of this man? "A little..." I lied. "Do I know you?" I ventured.

He laughed shortly. "I am Laurent. We knew each other briefly... before."

I searched within my memory and felt a hazy acknowledgement that he was telling the truth. "Before what? And... do you know my name?" I asked, though it shamed me to have to.

"Your name is James. You needn't worry about remembering everything all at once. It takes time for our human memories to come back, and sometimes they don't come at all. But that makes it easier," he said in a manner I might mistake for sympathetic. "Do you feel well?"

"I feel great," I answered honestly, unconsciously stretching the muscles in my legs as I spoke. My body was anxious to be moving again, to be hunting. "Why do you care?"

"I don't, of course," he said, as if such a question ought to be perfectly obvious. "But your sire does." He looked down at the chain still attached to my ankle and shook his head in disapproval as he bent to remove it.

"My sire?" I asked, not really wanting him to touch me, but anxious to have the shackle removed.

"He sent me to look for you. He wants me to bring you back," he said, easily crushing the metal shackle to bits beneath his hands.

I was impressed by his subtle strength but still suspicious of his motives. "Bring me back where?" I asked. "I don't want to go anywhere."

"I have to take you back," he insisted. "Your sire commands it."

He reached to take my arm, but I easily shrugged him off. "Who is this 'sire' you keep talking about? You mean my father or something?"

His lip curled into a sadistic grin. "Something like that. _C'est-à-dire_, he's the one who made you who you are today."

"Uh-huh," I said, folding my arms across my chest in disbelief. "And what exactly am I?"

"Why, you're a vampire," he said, looking surprised at my question. "And you have a lot to learn."

That I had much to learn was obvious to me, but that this Laurent fellow was the best teacher had yet to be seen. I agreed – reluctantly – to follow him, if only to satiate the peculiar curiosity I had to meet this "sire" he spoke of. Laurent babbled on about the characteristics of my new form – of my need for blood, my peculiar appearance in sunlight, my improved sleep and speed. He forced me to walk rather than run as we made our way down the mountainside, and each slow, laborious step was torture to my muscles, which were aching for the unfettered speed of yesterday. When I asked him why we were moving so slowly, he told me that it was in order to appear more human.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but don't we _feed_ on humans?" I asked, sullenly resigned to our agonizingly unhurried pace. Though my legs were slow, my mind was moving a mile a minute as it processed all the sounds and smells of the forest, my ears perking up at each chirp or squeak or rustle of leaves.

"_Oui_," he answered, strolling along with an unconcern so casual I wondered that it wasn't practiced. "But we need them for other things as well. It is necessary to blend in on occasion. _Mieux vaut plier que rompre._"

"What the hell does that mean?" I was already beginning to tire of Laurent's reliance on French proverbs as an instructional tool. If I ever knew French as a human, I certainly didn't remember it now.

"It means that we must adapt if we want to survive. We may be stronger and faster than humans, but they are still our greatest natural enemy. Our best defense is deception. _Camouflage_."

"Enemy?" I sneered, reaching out for a pine tree and ripping it from its roots. "What harm can they possibly do?" I asked, swinging the trunk easily for emphasis.

Laurent caught my wrist and neatly took away the tree I was wielding as a club. "They can do plenty, and it's best you learn this lesson early," he said in a clipped tone, tossing the pine aside. In the blink of an eye he had slipped the pack of matches in my breast pocket neatly out of my shirt without so much as ruffling the fabric. "Give me your hand," he instructed, and I did so... hesitantly. In the blink of an eye he had lit the match and positioned it under my outstretched hand.

After half a second I yelled out in pain and knocked him with all my strength against a boulder, where he sat stunned for a moment. "_Christ,_ what did you do that for?" I hissed, holding my singed palm protectively in my other hand. Even though the flame had barely licked my skin, the pain had been incredible. While Laurent struggled to stand, I ventured a cautious look at my palm. A hole had been burned completely through it. "What the _fuck?_" I said hoarsely, turning my hand over in disbelief.

"We are very vulnerable to fire," Laurent said, finally standing to his feet, seemingly unfazed by the staggering blow I'd just dealt him. "And I'd advise against hitting me again," he said, the husky tone of his voice hinting at a growl.

But his warning was lost on me – anger had already risen up and completely taken me over. I snarled and snapped my teeth like a rabid animal before lunging for his throat. In the brief struggle that followed there were only teeth and nails and raw power. I felt my bones cracking and my skin tearing, but I landed as many blows as I took, noting with satisfaction each grunt or wince I solicited from my opponent. After only seconds he had me pinned to the ground by a knee in my back, his solid arm choked around my throat in warning. Such a maneuver would have cracked a human's spine in half, but in my new, more durable body it only created a great deal of discomfort.

"You are strong because you are a newborn," he hissed in my ear, "But your ignorance makes you weak. I could rip your head off in a second and you'd be dead for good."

The impact of his words lessened my rage, but resentment still simmered beneath the surface. "But you won't," I baited him, struggling defiantly against his hold. "My sire wants you to bring me back to him."

"Yes, but he didn't say in what condition. Next lesson, James," he said, his voice leveling out as he regained control of the situation. "Vampire bites sting." His voice hissed out in a deadly whisper as he sank his teeth into my shoulder blade.

I howled as he bit into me, his poison seeping into the open wound and burning me like acid. I mustered all of my strength and threw him off of me, clutching at the tatters of my shirt to relieve the pressure on the bite wound. I turned to him with awe and anger, gulping in deep, unnecessary breaths as the burning sensation in my shoulder began to subside.

He leaped to his feet again and whirled around to face me. While his voice was calm, his eyes were dark with irritation. "Learn to control your anger, James. You'll find the others in our coven aren't nearly as patient as me, and they're twice as vicious. I'm only trying to help you. You'd do better to make me your ally than your enemy."

"You fucking _bit_ me!" I cried, trying to look over my shoulder at the wound.

"You'll heal. Look – the wound in your hand is already closing," he pointed out.

I looked down at my hand and gasped as I saw that he was right – the hole that had been there seconds before was steadily closing in upon itself until all that was left was smooth skin. No trace of the wound remained.

"Just take me to my sire," I spat out, but inwardly I acknowledged our silent truce.

By nightfall we came to an old gristmill on a river. By the smell of dust and rotting wood I assumed it to be long abandoned, yet I could hear voices inside and smell... humans! My mouth began to water at the thought of feeding again and I lurched forward, only to be caught by the arm by Laurent.

"There's no need to run – they aren't going anywhere," he remarked drolly. "You have to learn to be patient."

Though I disagreed, I stopped – if only to listen. I could hear their heartbeats – three of them, if I wasn't mistaken – beating quickly as hearts do in fear. Even from outside I could smell their sweat, the damp wool of their clothes. I pictured them huddled inside, frightened and vulnerable, their hot blood ripe for plunder. The very thought of them was making my throat burn with thirst. But... there was something else I could sense as well. There was a particular presence inside that was familiar to me.

"My sire is inside," I guessed, turning to Laurent.

"Yes," Laurent confirmed, turning to regard me curiously. "How did you know? Can you smell him?"

I shrugged. "I don't know," I said honestly. "I just noticed him, that's all."

Laurent raised an eyebrow, but continued leading me down the path to the front door of the mill. Irrationally, I was nervous. It is amazingly frustrating to be able to hear every sound, smell every scent, and feel every vibration on the other side of a door and still not be able to see through it. Laurent stepped in front of me and opened the door, and we were greeted by five pairs of dark, red eyes.

"He's back," one of them hissed.

"Not bad," another observed.

"Just _smell_ all the blood on him..."

"Where did you find him?"

"...can't be worse than how we found Randall..."

"Come here," one voice commanded above the rest, and the rest of the pairs of eyes drifted to the sides, clearing the path from the door to the man in the buckskin coat and the leather hat. He lifted his face to the scant light of the single, hanging light bulb and I stopped dead in my tracks.

I knew this man.

"Benito," I whispered, either in accusation or greeting.

A smile flitted across his rugged features. "James," he said, opening his arms. "Welcome to your new life."

I found myself stunned into silence, so I merely nodded. Something about this man was drawing me in and yet repelling me. I found I couldn't look away from him when he was talking to me. I stood by idly while Laurent explained our experiences on the mountainside, and Benito laughed out loud in delight as Laurent recounted our scuffle.

"Good, good..." was all Benito said, encouraging Laurent to continue.

While Laurent and Benito talked, the others edged closer, inspecting me. I didn't recognize any of them, and at any rate they held little of interest to me. There were two men and two women, whom I was later told were named Charles, Randall, Makenna, and Mary. But for tonight, the only person I saw was Benito. My sire. My master.

After a while Laurent and Benito stopped talking about me, and moved on to the discussion of some ranch they managed fifty miles from here. In retrospect, I should have paid attention, but at that moment my mind wandered again – as it always did now – to feeding. I could still detect the human scent somewhere in the mill and I looked around desperately for its source. Finally, Benito stopped talking to Laurent and turned to the rest of us.

"I think it's time to eat," he announced.

The tall one with shifty eyes – whom I later learned was named Randall – jumped up at once, disappearing into the next room and returning a moment later dragging three humans behind him by various limbs. The humans were all in a state of daze and made very little noise beyond the odd groan. The moment they were in sight I tensed, every nerve in my body shaking, begging me to pounce. They may have been lumberjacks or farmers or outlaws, but in my hungry eyes they were only prey. I knew my new self well enough by now to know that to resist my new urges was quite impossible. Without even thinking, I leaped with teeth bared and landed in a full tackle on the first human, who screamed and thrashed about beneath me. I twisted his head to the side, snapping his neck in the process, and bared his throat to my greedy mouth. But before I could bite I was knocked back onto the floor by two powerful shoves to my chest. I hit the ground hard, the thin layer of dust on the floorboards rising up in a puff of smoke upon my impact. I looked up to see Randall's foot coming down hard on my throat, his lank-haired female Mary hovering behind him, watching on with sadistic glee.

"First rule - newborns eat last," Randall said, drawing back his lip in a sneer. He spat on me, but with my new reflexes I was able to deflect the insult before it reached me.

"Second rule," I growled, staring up at him with hatred. "Don't touch me." Seizing upon Laurent's lesson earlier today for inspiration, I planted a hearty bite in Randall's ankle.

Randall hissed with pain and surprise, but recovered quickly and kicked me square across the jaw, cracking the bone into pieces. I roared and attacked him, my newborn strength allowing me the upper hand as I wrestled him to the ground and served blow upon blow to his face. Mary shrieked and tried to pull me off of her mate, but her strength was nothing compared to mine. I kicked her away easily and turned my attention to ripping off any of Randall's parts I could get a handle on.

"Enough!" Benito commanded from behind me, and the other vampires sprang to action. With their combined strength they wrested me away from Randall and threw me clear across the room, where I landed in a defeated heap.

"Looks like someone needs breaking," Randall drawled as he got to his feet, brushing himself off. He tugged awkwardly at his ear, hanging half-severed from the side of his head, and I was gratified to notice that he winced as he did so.

The other vampires voiced their agreement, but Laurent just shook his head. I hissed at them like a cornered cat and tried ineffectively to reset the bones Randall had jarred loose.

"He's still learning what it is to be a vampire," Laurent insisted, coming to my defense. "He can't even remember his human life. He's ripe for your purposes, master. He just needs molding."

"Yes," Benito said with a sigh. "Newborns usually do. Randall, I trust you can handle this?"

Randall grinned toothily as he set his ear back in place, where it began to heal back to his skin. "I can't wait."

* * *

As I would later discover, Benito knew more than his fair share about breaking and molding newborns. Benito and his former mate Maria had famously conjured up an entire army of newborn vampires before being stopped by the reigning vampire authorities, all of which Benito talked very little. No longer in the habit of raising armies, Benito adapted the practice of raising empires of wealth. Together with his coven he operated half a dozen cattle ranches in the area – including the one I'd apparently been working on, though I remembered nothing of it – and a handful of sawmills and gristmills. All of this I caught in bits and pieces over the next year in between beatings, confinements, and forced starvations. My sire was cautious, you see. Newborns, I was told, are only stronger than others for the first year of their life, and so at first I was kept as far away from my master as possible lest I bite the hand that fed me. Laurent may have tried to teach me how to imitate humans, but Randall taught me how to take a beating like the animal I was. They promised me once I learned to be obedient I could join the coven as an equal member, but obedience does not come naturally to monsters. It was a long, hard year, or it may have been much longer than that. Without the need for sleep, my new life stretched on and on, allowing each painful second to linger and each hateful thought to fester.

At last, one day, my sire came for me.

"Good morning, James," he said smoothly as he slipped through the door. It always amazed me that something as powerful as him could move so lightly. I supposed I would learn to do the same in time.

I was lying on my back, staring vacantly at the ceiling of the cellar and trying to think of absolutely nothing. Above me, the gristmill was rumbling to life for the day, and I could hear Charles and Randall shouting orders back and forth to the humans Benito had compelled into working for him. I tried not to breathe, not to listen to them. I'd learned to control myself around humans to a degree, but I was still slave to my predatorial impulses, and even the distant murmur of a heartbeat could set my mind to distraction.

"Good morning, master," I echoed back, just as I'd been taught.

"How are you feeling today?"

"Wonderful," I said hollowly.

Benito frowned, removing the leather falconer's gloves he so often wore around humans and placing a hand on my shoulder. "You know I hate to have you locked up, but you were a danger to others and yourself."

"I know."

"I thought you might like some company. You seem so lonely, James. I really don't like to see you so withdrawn. Is something troubling you? Are you remembering something from your human life?"

"No." I had no memories. I had no feelings. I had no past and no future – just the cruel present to look forward to.

"Good," he said, the corners of his mouth turning up in a smile. "Then I think it's time we put you to work."

* * *

**Thoughts, critiques, or questions are always welcome.**


	14. Orphan

**All Twilight characters are the property of Stephenie Meyer.**

**Thanks to those who reviewed last chapter! Again, I apologize for the delay in updates. Just know that I will definitely be finishing this story, even if the updates take a little longer to get out. I love it much too much to abandon it!**

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**Orphan**

_Victoria's POV_

Everything fell into place with a surprising neatness. With the assistance of Silas Black, Mandy and I found positions at the newly founded missionary school under the employment of a Mr. Jonathan Biers, who was intelligent, respectable, and more importantly head over heels in love with Mandy the second he set eyes on her. He hired us on the spot, and luckily for him Mandy and I were actually educated enough to be qualified. To compensate us for the measly pay he could afford us he offered us the use of the schoolroom's attic to be fashioned into an apartment for us to live in. Mr. Biers helped us to procure beds and some chairs for our room, and Mandy and I set to work sewing curtains and bedspreads. Before long we had fashioned the little attic into a very comfortable home for the pair of us. There was no place for a kitchen, but we took all our meals at Mr. Bier's modest home next door at the hospitality of his housekeeper, a gentle, elderly sort of woman who served every meal with a knowing smile and a glance between Mr. Biers and Mandy. It was obvious she didn't count it long before Mandy would be taking more than meals at her boss' home.

"Here you are, Mrs. Biers – oh heavens, I do apologize, Mrs. Childress! Don't mind me, my tongue is always running away with itself. If I had half the mind that it does, perhaps I'd be able to better control it. You will forgive me, I hope?" The old woman laughed and shook her head as she set the table before Mandy.

I would have been mortified at such an obviously _un_-accidental insinuation, but Mandy just smiled and let a coy blush spread over her cheeks – which were painted with more than girlish modesty, I might add.

"Really, Edith, you ought to be more thoughtful before you speak!" Mr. Biers said, nearly choking on his tongue at his housekeeper's blunder.

"It's quite all right," Mandy said, looking up shyly from underneath her eyelashes at the rather flustered Mr. Biers. "I don't mind in the slightest." She put her hand over Mr. Biers', and he managed a smile at her.

I had little doubt that it wouldn't be long at all before we'd all be correct in calling Mandy "Mrs. Biers."

Though at first I was quite worried for her health, Mandy grew stronger every day. Her improvement was only accelerated by Mr. Biers' constant doting on her, and it was obvious that she received such attention quite readily. Mandy was long used to being the center of attention in the eyes of men and we soon learned that Seattle was the ideal setting for such an ambition: since it was only industry that had yet reached this edge of the world, it was mostly men who occupied it. The ratio of men to women was laughably disproportionate, and even the fact that Mandy and I were widows did little to minimize the attention we were paid by the opposite sex.

That is, however, until my belly became larger than might be explained away by gluttony.

For her part, Mandy kept her word in helping me conceal the true nature of my difficulties. With her gift for gossip, it wasn't long before everyone heard and accepted the story that we had been robbed on the road to Seattle, our husbands murdered in cold blood at the point of some brutal highwayman's gun. This, of course, explained how we came to be with no money or direction upon our arrival in Seattle, and it also explained why a widow such as myself was not in possession of a wedding band. (Mandy quietly sold the ring my father had given her to back up our story.) Once we had the good word of the respectable Mr. Biers behind us, no one could doubt that our history was otherwise than how we had explained it.

As for me, this story was close enough to the truth to ease any guilt of conscience I might have had. Both my father and James had been murdered, and both Mary and I were grieving over them. Only, the fact that James had been the one to murder my father did not seem like a particularly relevant addition the story, though I remembered it every day.

I thought of my father often during this time. Work at the schoolhouse and pleasant conversation with Mr. Biers and the constant stream of his acquaintances from the church might have been able to occupy my mind for the better part of the day, but the moment Mandy turned off the lamp in our little attic my mind would be flooded with the memory of him. Often I had nightmares that he found out I was with child and was furious. In these dreams he would beat and berate me, calling me all the sorts of names I imagined I deserved. Ungrateful. Stupid. Whore. So I gave up on sleep most nights and lay awake thinking about my father. Some of the memories would set me to a cold sweat, but there were a few moments of my father's kindness I would like never to forget. Though he was a cruel and selfish man, he was the only parent I had ever truly known, and I could have used the comfort of a parent in this time.

Mandy came to sit by me one evening when I was nearly seven months along. I was sitting at the desk, my eyes half-crossed over my lesson plan for the next morning, my great bulge of a belly pressed uncomfortably against desk so that I could reach my pen to the paper.

"My, you're looking ripe," she said with a good-natured chuckle. I forced a laugh in response. "May I?" she asked, reaching a hesitant hand out to my abdomen.

"Of course," I said, pushing back from the desk and turning my chair to face her.

I watched her face closely as she smoothed a hand over my belly, which was straining against the nightgown that would normally have been considered loose on my body. Mandy smiled faintly as she rested her hand over my navel. "Any kicking today?" she whispered, as if afraid of waking the baby sleeping inside.

"A little. Mostly in the morning." I kept my answer guarded, unsure how much I should tell her. I knew she was jealous of me and I didn't want to upset her. With the certainty of Mr. Biers' proposal to her any day now, her ability to provide him with children had been foremost on her mind. Ever since her last miscarriage with my father, she wasn't sure that she could even conceive again - much less carry a child to term.

She grinned and rubbed a circle over my stomach as if she could stroke the baby's back within. The idea of a baby made her so obviously happy that I had to smile back at her enthusiasm.

"What did the doctor say?" she asked.

"He said everything appears normal. Only a few more weeks yet," I said in a falsely cheery tone. This was a pronouncement that filled me with little more than dread.

"Any more thought to what you'll name it?"

"No." To be honest, I hadn't thought of a name for the child because that would make it real. There were many times I wished it wasn't. Sometimes the child growing inside of me stirred nothing but anger and revulsion in me. Sometimes I wished I had lost it when Randall threw me down the basement stairs. There wasn't a suitable staircase to fall down at the schoolhouse or at Mr. Biers' house. I'd looked.

"You could always name it 'Amanda' after me," she said with a laugh. "Or after your father if it's a boy. Or... after the baby's father."

I squeezed my eyes shut to lock out any unwanted emotion that might spill over at her mention of James. Lately I'd been so angry with him, and angry with myself. How could I have invested myself so much in James? How could I have been so naïve as to open my heart and my bed to the man who later murdered my own father and joined a league of vampires? I wanted to hate him, but I couldn't bear to. I hated that I still loved him. Mostly, I hated the fact that I could never forget him as long as I was the mother to his child.

"You really miss him, don't you?" Mandy asked, softening her tone and frowning.

I didn't know if she meant James or my father, so I simply bowed my head.

"What would you name it?" I asked after a moment, genuinely curious.

She seemed startled by my question. "Me? I suppose I'd want to call him Frederick. That was my father's name – he never had a son of his own to pass it along to. But it's not my choice to make." She smiled bravely, obviously trying to ignore the fact that she might well never have the choice of what to name a child.

"It could be," I said, the ghost of an idea slowly materializing in my mind.

She was stunned speechless as she picked up on my meaning. "What d-do you mean?" she stammered, shaking her head as if she had heard me wrong. Of course she was confused. What I was suggesting was preposterous, unheard of, and entirely improper. And yet...

"I mean that this," I said, rubbing my hand over the sizeable lump beneath the worn cotton of my nightgown, "could be your baby."

She was aghast at the very notion and could never presume to do such a thing, she said, in between gasps of outrage and surprise. After a moment she changed her tone to one of doubt that Mr. Biers would ever acquiesce to such a suggestion, and then to a tone that seemed to suggest to me that she would very much like to agree to such an offer, but found herself morally obligated not to.

I waited for her to stop blabbering before taking her hands and saying in a voice that was much calmer than I felt, "Listen, you and Mr. Biers are soon to be engaged, are you not?"

She swallowed hard and nodded.

"And you know as well as I that the likelihood of your being able to have your own natural children is uncertain. And I think we can both agree that you're far more likely to be a good parent than I am." I allowed myself an ironic smile. "Just... promise you'll think about it. I think it would be the happiest solution for everyone involved."

"I will think about it," she promised, and then she drifted down the stairs to meet Mr. Biers for a dinner party at a friend's home.

At any rate, her promise to consider my offer allowed me to have the first decent night's sleep in months.

As it turned out, I did not have to wait very long for an answer. That very evening after the dinner party, Mr. Biers proposed to Mandy - though she didn't tell me so that night - and only a few days later she came running into my arms with tear-stained cheeks and a bright smile.

"He said yes, Victoria! He said _yes_!" she cried, nearly bowling me over as she wrapped me in a tight embrace.

"Wasn't he the one supposed to be proposing marriage to you?" I asked wryly, trying to recover my balance. My equilibrium, as you can imagine, had been much altered by the addition of another being to my slight frame.

"No, he did ask me to marry him," she laughed. "But I told him I'd only accept on one condition."

I was stunned. What condition could she mean?

"My condition was that he and I would adopt your child," she said, then held her breath to gauge my reaction.

"And he... agreed?" I asked cautiously, trying not to let my fluttering heart overtake me with premature celebration.

She nodded and wiped away another tear of joy. "I think he was disappointed when I told him I might not be able to bear his children, but he agreed that an adopted child was better than no child at all. I told him I just couldn't live through another childless marriage, Victoria. All the heartache over each miscarriage..." She shook her head sadly at the memory. "It nearly destroyed me. I know it destroyed your father."

I decided not to point out that their marriage hadn't been entirely childless if you counted me among their children. "This is wonderful news!" I said, a genuine smile spreading over my face. I returned her embrace and let myself give into the beautiful sense of relief that rushed over me. Now I could finally start anew – free from anything that would remind me of James, or my father, or the horrors back at Canyon Ridge. Well, almost free from anything.

"Knock, knock," a quiet voice spoke at the door.

We broke our embrace and turned to see a shy Mr. Biers standing in the doorway, the corners of his mouth tipped up in an embarrassed smile. "I see Mandy's told you," he said sheepishly.

"Yes, I'm so happy for you both – for your marriage and for the child."

Mr. Biers edged closer. "We'd love to give your child a good home, but are you sure, Mrs. Wilder? It's a big decision. This child is a part of you."

I still flinched whenever someone called me by James' last name, but I kept a straight face.

"No," I answered confidently. "There's no part of me in this child. He's entirely yours. He only wanted me to bring him to you."

* * *

The wedding was a lovely, quiet affair performed by the sea. Silas Black and his family were in attendance, as well as a few fellow missionaries that Mr. Biers was acquainted with in the area, but there were no other guests than the casual gawker passing by on their way to the harbor. Normally I found church to be dreadfully dull, but with the pleasant distractions of the sea breeze and the waves I found I could tolerate the short service quite well. It was a truly happy occasion. Everything had been so neatly settled for Mandy and Mr. Biers. They were both complacent in the other's looks, manners, and general temperament enough that we might believe them suitably in love. They were both decently employed and in the possession of a quaint little home they could make their own. All that was desired was a child to bind them together, and_ that_ Nature would provide in short enough order if my growing belly did not deceive us.

When it happened it was an easy delivery, as far as such labor goes. The child seemed to be aware that he was going home to parents who would love and dote on him, and made little fuss in taking his leave of me. I suspect that if _I_ were to be the baby's keeper he might have put up a better fight and refused to come out without a good bit of groveling and coaxing on the part of the midwife. Even though the actual delivery was quick enough, the pain that accompanied it was indescribable. They tell me I screamed, but I heard none of it. All I remember is clutching tight to the healing woman's hand and letting everything go – all the shame, all the guilt and sadness, until all that was left was the shell of me - the shadow of the woman that might have been had she never let misery into her life. Or love, for that matter.

The baby was a healthy little boy, and I tried my best not to take note of how much he resembled James. I was glad that he resembled me none at all, at least. Red hair would have been a dead giveaway. As soon as he had been fed I immediately handed him off to Mandy, who took him into her arms with as great a reverence as if she were being handed the Messiah himself. She named him Frederick as she'd told me, and they bonded immediately - exactly as mother and child ought to.

Of course, the only thing left for me to do was take my leave.

There were the expected murmurs of protest, but eventually everyone came to my point of view: it would never do for me to be around as constant reminder that the child was not living with his natural parents. Additionally, I had no desire to be reminded daily of my selfish neglect of him. No, this would be the best solution for all. I would get to start fresh in a new place with new people, and Mandy and her husband would have a new baby with no compunctions about claiming him as their own.

"I'm not sure if I ought to offer you congratulations, but I'm going to all the same," Silas said to me on the day of the christening, which was proudly performed by Mr. Biers himself about a week after the child was born.

"Thank you, Silas," I said, covering a laugh. "Coming from you I think I can make an exception to accept it."

The rest of the guests were in the parlor of the Biers house with Mandy, passing around and admiring baby Frederick. Only Silas and I remained at the dining table, picking over the stale _hors d'oeuvres_ and nursing a cup of cold tea to justify not joining the others. I was glad that we had become something like friends over the past year, even though I knew we only ever became close because of James.

"When will you leave?" he asked. It relieved me greatly that he did not beg me to stay as the others had. I imagine he understood better why I had to leave.

"I'll stay as long as the doctor thinks is safe, but once the baby learns to take a bottle I'll be on my way," I told him with a small smile. Unfortunately the lack of women in Seattle signaled a lack of suitable wet nurses, so I had agreed to stay on as the baby's nurse for a short while.

He nodded, absently stirring more sugar into his tea, the wheels in his head turning. "Do you know where you'll go yet?"

"Mr. Biers has found me a teaching position in Tacoma that will have me whenever I'm ready." This much was true.

"Do you think you'd be happy there?"

"I don't see why I wouldn't be." I didn't see why I would, either, but I didn't mention this. It really didn't matter at all whether I could be happy in Tacoma since I wasn't really going there. I was going someplace that no one could find me.

Silas looked askance at me as he reached for another chocolate strawberry from the centerpiece. I could tell he was suspicious, but he wasn't going to trick any secrets out of me. "Are you at all worried," he asked in a low voice, "that James might hear about the child and come for it?"

I froze with my teacup halfway between the table and my mouth.

"No," I made myself say, and put down the teacup before my trembling hand would belie the truth of my words. In fact, the very idea terrified me. If James were indeed alive in some capacity, he had made no effort to contact me. This gave me hope that he had not heard of my pregnancy at all, and consequently that he would not associate Mandy's new baby with me in any way should he find it. Still, if he did find out... would the new monster he had become choose to punish me or the child for keeping such a secret from him? "He'll have no reason to suppose the baby is mine if it's with the Biers. If he comes for anyone, it will be for me." The blood ran cold in my veins as I said those words. It was for exactly this reason that I knew I couldn't tell anyone where I was going. If James came looking for me here in Seattle, no one would be able to point him in my direction.

"Victoria," Silas said, placing his hand over mine, his brow lined with worry. "Promise me you'll be careful."

"You needn't worry. He can't hurt me more than he already has."

I stood up quickly and excused myself before Silas could notice I was crying.

* * *

When the time finally came for me to leave, I think Mandy was more than ready to send me packing. I found myself purposely nettling anyone who came near me and I became careless with my duties at the schoolhouse, forcing Mandy to correct my mistakes more than once. I took every opportunity to sleep, even at odd hours of the afternoon, and when I wasn't sleeping, I was sobbing. I didn't want to see anybody – least of all the baby. The task of feeding someone else's child was heart wrenching. At first I submitted to it happily to please Mandy, but then the burden of it became more than I could bear. As much as I swore to myself up and down that I would not become attached to that baby, every time I held it in my arms it was as if someone were taking a knife to my heart. This could have been my baby. This could have been James' baby. It became too painful to feed him myself, and I begged Mandy to try him on a bottle, even though it was early yet. She finally consented, if only to prevent the poor child from starving, but she made it clear with her typical _hauteur_ that once the baby no longer needed me my welcome would be considered overstayed. She'd been a good friend to me, but that temporary kinship had obviously run its course.

So I packed up what little things I could claim to my name and the letter of recommendation from Mr. Biers. Then I slipped out of my attic room while everyone else was still sleeping and made my way to the stagecoach station. They might be surprised to find me gone in the morning, but I'd rather risk their temporary discomfort than suffer through an endless chorus of "good-byes" and crocodile tears. Once at the station I purchased a ticket for a station as far South as I could go, and upon reaching that destination bought another ticket East, and then another. For weeks I lived and breathed only the rattle and dust of the road and the stale biscuits and jerky I managed to snatch up at coach stations along the way. I didn't know where I was going, nor did I care. For once in my life I was completely on my own. And completely free.

When finally the last of James' money was spent, I found myself at a train station in plains country, the clean scent of pine I'd grown accustomed to in Washington Territory replaced by the sweet and sunny smell of fresh mown grass. It was a morning – which day of the week, I couldn't tell you – and I had only the few dollars of salary I'd managed to save to find me shelter. I wandered the streets of the bustling little market town, inquiring here or there where employment for a teacher might be found. Eventually I followed the sounds of children's laughter to a play yard behind a schoolhouse, and learned from the instructor within that a neighboring farm town was in need of a teacher for their half dozen offspring. It would cost me the last of my money to hire a wagon to drive me over there, but it was worth it for the promise of starting my life over.

I spent several pleasant years in that little town, teaching school by day and taking up sewing by night to stretch my meager salary far enough to afford the one room cottage on the edge of town. I was overworked, poor, and exhausted, but I'd never been happier. Teaching had taught me to become more assertive and independent, and eventually all the holes and cracks in my soul were filled with new faces, fresh air, and hard work. Even mending the dirty socks of some hick farmer made me feel as if I were worth more than the little glass doll I had been, kept up on my high shelf above the world, taken down only to be broken and tossed aside. I should have listened to James those years ago when he suggested I run away. Then I didn't believe that I could survive alone in the wild without a stake to cling to, but then I was wrong. I had to admit that I owed it to James, even if it was not his intention to do so, for freeing me from my old life – for freeing me from myself.

No one came looking for me. If my old friends in Seattle tried to write me, they gave up after a few misdirected letters, or maybe they didn't. It mattered not. None of them could possibly find me in the sweet little burrow I'd hollowed out for myself. I felt completely secure and safe from the world. I wanted for nothing at all. Well, almost for nothing at all – but I what I wanted I knew I could never have, and so I contented myself with that small deficiency.

I sighed and set aside my evening's work – a work shirt devoid of more than a few necessary buttons – and stretched. It was growing dark out, and soon I'd need to light a lamp, but for now I was content to sit in the peaceful dim of my cottage and watch the stars appear between the fluttering lace curtains. It was still warm enough to warrant keeping the windows open, but the air had a certain icy bite to it that promised autumn was on its way. It reminded me that I'd have to take in a few more mending jobs if I wanted to be able to afford firewood through the winter, but I was content enough now not to be bothered with such concerns. I stood up and made my way to the nightstand, where I found my hairbrush and set it to good use on the tangled mess my curls had become. As I brushed my hair I wandered over to the door to my garden. Through the window I could see that the moon was rising and bathing everything with a soft golden glow. On impulse, I opened the door and walked outside in only my bare feet and a nightgown. I was far enough away from my nearest neighbor not to worry for modesty's sake, and if any nocturnal creature happened to be prowling about at this hour I doubted very much that it would be offended by my state of undress.

I continued walking amongst the little patch of vegetables and ornamental flowers I'd planted the spring before. I relished the sensation of the cool dirt against my bare feet and the soft hint of perfume that rose up each time my skirt brushed against a bloom. A breeze stirred through the grass and the trees, sending a gust of cold air up my nightgown and a chill right through me. There was a certain thrill in standing there, vulnerable to the night as I was. But there was something else I felt. A someone else. An excited tingle crept up my spine as I realized I might not be wholly alone out in the garden that night.

"Is someone there?" I called impulsively, my voice surprisingly steady.

Without warning the most beautiful creature I had ever seen stepped out into the moonlight, its ink black eyes locked tight with mine.

"Victoria," it said in its velvety voice.

My entire sense of gravity floated off without me and my knees threatened to buckle.

"You found me," I whispered hoarsely.

* * *

**I hope you enjoyed it! Suggestions or comments are greatly appreciated.**


	15. Monster

**All Twilight characters are the property of Stephenie Meyer.**

**I hope my U.S. readers had a Happy Thanksgiving! A special thanks goes to everyone who reviewed the last chapter. I hope you'll enjoy this one! **

**A note: I wanted to remind everyone that I am basing my characters off of the James and Victoria **_**from the books**_**, so if elements of them seem inconsistent with their portrayal in the movie – this is why!**

* * *

**Monster**

_James' POV_

I knew we'd found him the minute we walked in the door.

"He's in here," I whispered in an imperceptible undertone to Laurent, who was lounging against the wood-paneled wall of the brewery's back entryway, his bowler hat tilted low over his dark, red eyes.

Laurent pulled a pocket watch from his paisley waistcoat and unnecessarily checked the time – a strange habit he had managed to retain since his human years, however long ago those might have been. Since we never slept, vampires cared very little for human conventions of measuring the passage of time. "Benito said he wouldn't be in until nine," he whispered easily back to me – not in disagreement, but merely in observation.

Beneath us the floor rattled and grumbled with the force of a hundred machines churning and mashing. The air was thick and moist with fermenting oats and yeast. Above us I could hear the rhythmic stepping of feet: the brewery's skeleton early morning crew making their rounds to ensure nothing went wrong with the machinery during the night. Even with our heightened senses, neither of us could physically detect the presence of another vampire. But yet, I _knew_ there was one there.

"No," I said, shaking my head as I lifted my eyes up the towering vertical brewing mechanism that stretched from the ground level all the way up to the fifth floor's ceiling. Overhead, a massive skylight let the early morning rays slither down the machine's silhouette like a spotlight. Halfway up, a metal catwalk circled a pair of giant silver vats, a thick vapor of steam rising steadily from their tops, bullets of condensation beading on their skins. I let my eyes scan the length of the catwalk to where it extended from the floor's main landing. The space beyond still lay in darkness since the brewery had not yet opened for the main shifts. Suddenly, a vague figure in shirtsleeves walked briskly past the dim glimmer of light from the skylight and disappeared into the darkness again. _There_. "He's definitely here," I said, my knees bending reflexively into a crouch as my body tensed in anticipation of action.

"How can you tell?" Laurent asked with wonder. "I can smell nothing but the beer and the humans."

I allowed myself a wry grin at my friend. "Are you saying I'm wrong?"

Laurent returned my smile. He knew from experience that even though there was no rational way to explain my uncanny ability at locating people, I had never led him astray. If I said the vampire was there, he damn well was.

Laurent turned his head and pushed his chin up quickly in a nod to Randall, who was hovering in the entryway.

"Where is he?" Randall asked me, pushing past Laurent and looking up into the brewery's interior. Though we might not get along, he, like Laurent, knew he'd do better to trust me than waste time by asking questions.

I closed my red eyes, stilling my body and willing myself to concentrate. The vampire in question's presence itched and nettled my brain, pulling me explicably in his direction. "Fourth floor," I told Randall, tugging my wool cap lower over my forehead and pushing up my sleeves. "Let's split up."

The three of us wordlessly dove into the brewery's black interior, each of stealthily shifting to our respective shadows. Laurent took the main staircase, calmly trotting up the steps with his hands thrust deep in his pockets as if he owned the place. I found a service ladder on the far wall and silently lifted myself up it hand over hand, forcing my pace to what felt like a crawl to avoid detection. This was a situation that called for subtlety. The humans might not notice me, but it wouldn't take more than a whiff of trouble for our target to bolt or mount a defense. I might be the best at tracking, but I was certainly not the fastest or strongest. Randall took the lead, bolding scaling the brewing mechanism itself, easily swinging from pipe to pipe with unnatural speed, heedless of the boiling or freezing liquid churning inside. He reached the fourth floor first and jumped with a vigorous flourish onto the platform. He landed with a hiss in a predatory crouch in front of the vampire in shirtsleeves, who looked startled at Randall's entrance, but otherwise unafraid.

"Hmm," the new vampire said, screwing up one side of his mouth in disgust. He pushed his gold wire rimmed glasses further up his heavy nose. "I remember you," he spat out with disdain. The new vampire spoke with the sharp Southie accent of lower Boston. Benito preferred to hire local managers whenever possible to get the deepest ties to the indigenous business, but authenticity brought with it its share of mouthiness and incompetence.

"You should," Randall said, straightening to his full height and stalking confidently towards the other vampire, who stood easily half a head shorter than himself. "You owe my master money."

The smaller vampire looked annoyed. "Well, tell him he'll get it as soon as this next batch goes to market."

"We weren't told to bring back any messages, Simon," Laurent's sultry voice sounded from the stairwell behind the new vampire. "Just our master's money."

"And he'll get it," the vampire named Simon said through gritted teeth, his small hands tightening into claws at his sides. He watched carefully as Laurent and Randall walked a calculating circle around him. "As soon as this sale goes through."

"That's not good enough," Randall said, baring his teeth in open display of his impatience.

"You think I'm afraid of you?" Simon said, baring his teeth back at Randall and taking a challenging step forward. "Benito should know better than to send just you two. I've taken out meaner and uglier mugs than you one-handed."

I dropped down from the catwalk above him, my hard-soled Oxford shoes not making even the slightest of sounds as they connected with the concrete floor. "He also sent me," I said quietly, lifting my flat cap higher to allow him to see my eyes, now entirely blackened over with the anticipation of violence.

Simon looked up at me with surprise. "Benito's new tracker," he whispered under his breath, shaking his head slightly in disbelief. True trackers, as such I learned that I was, were rare commodities, even in vampire-infested Boston.

My mere presence was actually all that it required to distract the new vampire long enough for Randall and Laurent to seize him by either arm, their feet pressed bracingly against the smaller vampire's hips for leverage as they ripped the limbs from their sockets. The tearing vampire flesh crackled like broken glass where it ripped, and Simon opened his mouth to scream, but I was on him in a second, one of my arms choked tight around his throat and the other hand clamped firmly over his mouth. Normally, I'd love to hear this bastard scream and beg for mercy, but there were humans working in the brewery that I didn't want stumbling over to find out what the fuss was about.

"Just keep quiet and stay calm," I hissed in his ear as Laurent and Randall tossed aside the vampire's severed arms and grabbed for his legs. "You'll get your limbs back just as soon as you tell us where our master's money is."

"I don't have it yet," the vampire gasped against my hand, struggling wildly as Laurent and Randall gripped his legs by the knees.

Randall smirked at him and gave the new vampire's leg a warning yank. "Are you sure?"

Simon groaned faintly in pain, but didn't answer.

"Maybe your mate knows," I said, tightening my arm into a vice around his neck. "Maybe we could just dispose of you and pay her a visit. Does she still live in that little place in Newton?" I asked, closing my eyes momentarily and casting out for her presence with my mind. "Ah, I see that she does."

Simon's eyes widened. "You wouldn't," he growled, his lips pulling away from his fangs beneath my hand.

"Just tell us where the money is and everyone walks away happy," Laurent advised, his claws digging threateningly into Simon's shin. Laurent shot a warning look at me, which I ignored.

"Over my dead body," the vampire hissed, summoning a hidden reserve of strength and kicking Randall and Laurent square in the face with his heavy steel tipped boots before chomping his teeth down hard on my hand. I roared with pain and was momentarily stunned, but not before he could slip out of my grasp. Overcome with rage, I squeezed my arm tighter and tighter around his throat until I heard something snap. I pulled up with all of my strength and then released, sending the vampire's dismembered head skipping and sliding across the concrete floor. Randall and Laurent recovered their senses in time to witness the violence.

"What the fuck did you do that for!" Randall shouted.

"He hadn't told us where the money was yet, James," Laurent reminded me, careful to keep his voice level despite the cold anger shining in his eyes.

"It's not likely he would have anyway. If we can't find it in his office somewhere, we'll take it from his mate," I told him, grabbing what was left of the vampire's ruined body and distributing the parts among us equally. "Now, throw these all in separate vats. I don't want him finding a way to put himself back together."

"Benito will be angry if you're wrong," Laurent warned.

"Then Benito can go fuck himself," I bit out, hauling the vampire's lifeless torso over one shoulder and storming off.

* * *

As it happened, Benito did not have cause to be angry, because as it happened, we found all the money we required and more in a safe behind Simon's office desk. So Benito, in fact, was very pleased with us upon our return.

"You've outdone yourself again, James," Benito said with an incredulous shake of his head and a laugh as he counted the money we'd brought him from the brewery. "This is almost twice as much as he owed us."

"I believe he's doubled your income since he joined us," Charles remarked quietly from where he sat at the desk we used for accounting. His dark haired mate Makenna was perched on the desk's edge, perusing a ladies magazine with disinterest. Across the room, Randall had sprawled himself indelicately across an overstuffed settee, now stained and tattered with misuse, and his wild-eyed mate Mary had settled herself comfortably in his lap and set to work on chewing her nails.

We were in the attic of a crumbling boarding house on the edge of town, where we had set up our temporary headquarters in Boston. The boarding house was especially convenient since the wretched mass of working class humans living downstairs covered our scent from any prying vampires who might be looking for us _and_ their frail bodies provided a constant stream of sustenance to us should we not want to risk hunting in the wilds of Boston. Boston was stuffed to the brim with vampires in those days, and while Benito didn't mind exploiting them in his business enterprises, he sure as hell didn't want to chance running into them unawares and on an empty stomach.

Randall growled low in his throat with outrage at Benito's praise of me. "He killed the bastard before he could even tell us where the money was!"

"He bit me," I protested mildly, which caused Mary to cackle raucously. Randall scowled at her in disapproval.

"It is true he did not follow the plan, but he did get the money _enfin_," Laurent added in my defense.

"And managed to get rid of one of my least favorite business associates in the process," Benito said with a smile, stroking the back of his hand down my cheek affectionately. "Well done, James," he murmured with approval.

Inwardly, I cringed at his touch, but I forced myself to remain still. "Thank you, master," I said, hoping he wouldn't notice the way my teeth were gritted together in disgust.

"I think James deserves to be rewarded," Mary said, sliding off of Randall's lap and smoothing her hands suggestively down the front of her faded gingham dress.

"Not by you," Randall growled and stood up to grab his mate back to him, but Laurent stepped in and calmly pushed him back onto the settee.

"That's up to the master," Laurent said with a disapproving cluck of his tongue.

"I agree," Benito said smoothly, pulling his cold fingers through my closely cropped hair. "I think James deserves a reward..." Benito snapped the buttons of my shirt open one by one with his free hand. I closed my eyes and distanced myself from the situation in order to maintain my composure. I hated when Benito treated me like his prize stud, but I'd come a long way in the last handful of years towards accepting degradation as a means to rising in the ranks of his coven. Even though his very touch made me sick to my stomach, I'd learned to stop fighting him years ago. If I was lucky, my 'reward' would be quick and unmemorable.

Benito pressed his cold hands to the hard contours of my abdomen and slid the two sides of the shirt apart and open so that he could admire me. "So, James," he said after a moment, pushing the rest of my shirt over my shoulders and down to the floor. "How would you like to be rewarded?"

I opened my eyes in surprise, amazed that he was actually giving me a choice in the matter. To be honest, I just wanted to be left the hell alone, but since my only options were varying degrees of humiliation, I chose the path of least resistance. "I'll take Mary," I said lowly, taking no pleasure in the delighted squeak Mary made in response.

It wasn't the first time I'd had Mary. Or any of the others, for that matter. Benito was a big proponent of sharing. I didn't desire Mary the way she obviously did me, but at least her eagerness to please me made enduring her attentions palatable.

She moved to stand before me with a wicked grin stretched over her gaunt features. "What do you say, James?" she purred, easing her bony hand down the front of my trousers. "Do you want to be rewarded on your back or mine?"

I caught her wrist before she could unfasten my belt and wrenched it harshly behind her back, shoving her face first against the peeling floral wallpaper of the attic wall and leaving a sizeable dent where her marble nose punctured the wood panel. I pinned her body to the wall with my pelvis against her backside and my forearm against the back of her head. "Fucking you is more of a chore than a reward," I growled in her ear, low enough that Benito wouldn't hear.

She managed to turn her face away from the wall, blowing out a mouthful of dust and wallpaper glue as she did. "But you still want me," she said with a smile, grinding her backside slightly against the undeniable symptoms of my growing arousal. "At least one part of you..."

"Keep your mouth shut and I'll try not to snap your neck," I hissed back, grabbing a fistful of her hair and yanking her head back, exposing the white base of her throat.

"Don't hold back on my account," she breathed, her eyes dark with lust.

I bit into her throat deeply, choking off any further speech with a generous dose of pain. Her body shuddered as my poison sank into her, and she moaned with pleasure, setting one hand into a knot in my hair and the other on my thigh behind her.

"Poor Mary," Charles said with a dry laugh as I ripped open the front of Mary's bodice and raked my claws across the granite hard skin of her breasts. "She doesn't understand that he's actually trying to hurt her."

"He's never so rough with me," Makenna said with a shrug, earning an indignant sound from her mate Charles.

"I think it's time James found his own mate," Randall remarked sourly, keeping his eyes carefully averted from the sight of his mate squeezing the front of my trousers and panting like a bitch in heat.

"We all share in this coven," Benito said sternly, casting a warning glare at Randall's sulking pout.

"Yeah, well, I wouldn't have minded sharing that little redheaded slut that was at Canyon Ridge," Randall grumbled, folding his arms across his chest to restrain himself as I pushed Mary unkindly over the accounting desk.

"Oh, the little human girl?" Makenna asked, pulling an appreciative hand over the muscles of my back as I set to work pulling up Mary's many layers of skirts and petticoats. "She was adorable. And she smelled delicious, too."

Charles nodded in agreement, his attention preoccupied with the admiration of Mary's bared breasts in front of him.

"The red-haired girl?" Benito asked, squinting his eyes as he tried to recall her face in his mind. "Oh, do you mean the one James asked me to spare for him? What was her name again?" Benito looked over to Laurent, who seemed to hesitate.

"Was it Mandy?" Charles suggested.

"No, that was the older one." Makenna frowned as if she should know the answer to this question. "Veronica? Vanessa?"

I paused with my hands on my belt buckle. _Wait, who?_ I didn't know what girl they were talking about, and furthermore I hated that they were talking about me as if I weren't there. Since Mary was looking disapprovingly at me over her shoulder, I shook my head and dismissed whatever feeling of unease had begun to form in the pit of my stomach.

"Well, Laurent?" Benito asked impatiently, his gaze still leveled at his second in command.

Finally, Laurent cleared his throat and answered him. "Her name was Victoria, master. Victoria Childress."

The name hit me like a blow to the chest, knocking all sense of balance or reason from me.

"Victoria," I whispered to myself, taking a step back from Mary to steady myself. Why did that name seem so important? I crushed a fist to my forehead, which was suddenly aching with the effort of trying to remember. Who was Victoria to me?

Makenna balked. "Oh _Christ_, don't tell me he didn't remember her until just now?"

Randall laughed sadistically and Charles joined him in snickering at their private joke, the butt of which was obviously myself. Why couldn't I _remember_ what they were talking about?

"Jaaaames," Mary whined, shaking her backside at me reproachfully. "Why'd you stop?" She turned around and attempted to snake her arms around my neck.

"Don't touch me," I said, pushing her away from me with disgust. The air in the attic felt all at once dizzyingly warm. I needed to get out of there – I needed to _think_. I pushed my way past Benito and Laurent and stumbled towards the door.

"James," Benito called after me, his voice tight with warning. "Don't leave. You're not finished."

I ignored him, running down the creaking wooden staircase as fast as my legs would allow me, my entire body numb with dread. Something was wrong. I had missed something important.

"_Merde_," Laurent swore behind me. "I'll get him, master," he told Benito as he set off at a run after me.

I knew from experience that Laurent was at least as fast – if not faster – as I was, so the fact that it took him a full hour to find me indicated to me that he was giving me space to puzzle through things before he caught up with me. When he finally happened upon me, I was pacing the docks of the harbor, my hands shoved deep into my pockets. To any human I must have looked insane, walking along the frigid water as I was in nothing but a pair of suspenders and trousers, my bare chest flecked with splashes of the blood of some poor soul who'd made the mistake of getting in my way. I thought feeding would calm me down, but it had only upset my stomach, which was churning with unwelcome emotion. Despite the fact that I hadn't felt anything approaching cold since becoming a vampire, I was shaking all over.

My mind was reeling with thoughts of Victoria. I could see her so clearly now in my mind, just as she'd looked that morning after the fire: her hair wild and her feet bare beneath the thin white night dress, the pale skin of her beautiful face smudged dark and angry with soot. In my mind, her eyes were heavy with sadness, and I knew that I was the cause of it. I'd betrayed her. I'd abandoned her. I'd forgotten her. She was the girl that I'd sworn to protect and I'd ended up being the one to hurt her.

"James," Laurent said softly. He approached me calmly with his hands extended in truce.

"You knew!" I roared, turning on him. "All this time you knew that I would want to remember – and you told me nothing!" I ripped angrily at my own hair, trying to inflict the kind of physical pain that might overpower the sinking weight in my chest. Guilt.

"_Oui_, I knew," he said, still making his way slowly toward me. "But I knew it was for the best if you forgot."

"You should have told me," I growled at him, wrapping my trembling arms around myself in an attempt to feel warm again.

"Why should I have told you?" Laurent asked, coming to a stop just out of arm's reach. His eyes flared suddenly with passion. "So that you could go after her and kill her?"

"I would never kill her!" I shouted back, horrified. _But I also vowed I'd never hurt her,_ I mentally reproached myself.

"You can't stand there with blood all over your mouth and tell me you had the self-control to avoid harming her," Laurent said derisively, his lip twisted in a sneer.

I was surprised at his vitriol. Laurent hadn't spoken this harshly to me since the first day of my new life. "I could have turned her," I argued, though even _I_ wasn't certain I possessed the self-control to take only one bite from her, much less sit still and watch while she suffered the agony of transformation. "Then we could have been together."

"_Bien sûr,_" Laurent scoffed. "And then you would be sharing her with the rest of the coven. What if it weren't you and Mary performing for everyone today, yes? What if it were Randall and Victoria instead?"

My hands balled into fists. "He wouldn't dare."

Laurent laughed. "He wouldn't? Then perhaps Benito would care to sample her. You know as well as I how he likes to play with his new members..." He raised a significant brow at me.

I bristled immediately. "And I suppose you would like to make a pass at her, as well," I hissed.

"I would be lying if I said I didn't find her attractive," he said with the slightest of shrugs. "But I think you forget that I am on your side here, James. I was trying to protect both you and your Victoria when I decided not to remind you. I figured if you remembered on your own, it would be out of my hands."

"Is that why you don't have a mate?" I asked, my anger rolling up and down me in waves. I stopped shaking as my body warmed with rage.

"Not anymore," he admitted, his voice hollow with the ring of defeat.

I didn't press him for details. This was my pain, and I wasn't going to allow his empathy to take the edge off of it.

"I have to find her," I said, rubbing my hands up and down my arms anxiously. "I never meant to leave her."

"You told her to go yourself," Laurent spat out, his patience completely expended. "You were that smart then at least."

"She has no family," I retorted. "She needs me."

"That was five years ago, James," he reminded me. "If she hasn't learn to live without you by now, she's probably dead."

I froze in place, stunned. "Dead?" I echoed.

"Yes. Dead. Who knows? Maybe you accidentally killed her yourself on your first day of being a vampire. You can't tell me you remember the faces of all the people you slaughtered." Laurent was angry with me now.

His words stabbed me to the core. "No," I said, my voice unsteady. "No. I wouldn't have. She's still alive. She has to be." As I said the words, a familiar tingling sensation began to nag at the corner of my mind. It was faint, but discernable. Victoria's presence. "She _is_..." I breathed in a hushed tone, my mouth falling open in awe.

Laurent recognized the expression clouding over my eyes. "No, James. _Don't_."

"I can feel her. I know where she is," I said, suddenly sucking in huge gulps of unnecessary air in my excitement. "I can find her."

"James, _you can't._ Benito will just take her from you," Laurent said, his expression changing sharply from one of anger to one of pleading.

"Let him try," I hissed, my jaw clenching with resolve. With those words I was off and running, and this time Laurent did not try to stop me.

* * *

You may not believe me when I tell you, but I knew not where I ran, nor for how long. Whole cities and towns and nights and days flew past me with the dizzying speed of comets. My senses were reduced to a narrow tunnel of feeling with the thrumming beacon of Victoria's presence at its axis. Obstacles that happened into my path were obliterated; unlucky humans were devoured whole. With each step her presence burned hotter, the image of her in my mind flared brighter. Had my heart not stopped those five years ago, it would have hammered a hole in my chest in anticipation. How many times had I run by her in the past five years without even noticing her? How many women who had the misfortune to look like her had been my victims without me making the connection? I didn't care about the risk; I knew I had to see her again. Even if I only got a glimpse of her, I just had to know she was safe.

I hadn't counted on how much it would hurt to see her happy, though.

I slowed when the throb of her presence in my brain became overwhelming in its intensity. I stopped and looked around myself. I found myself standing in the middle of field, the shoulder high stalks of corn rustling quietly in the slight evening breeze. She was close by – I could feel it. I made my way cautiously through the stalks, trying to pick out her scent. I came to the end of the rows of corn and found the low roof of a cottage peeking out between a grove of trees. There were no lights on inside, and I wondered if she was asleep. That would certainly make it simpler for me. I could just take a peek in the window and be on my way...

The clumsy shuffle of human feet pricked my ears and I snapped my head in the direction of its source. Without even thinking I stalked closer, my bare feet moving with the practiced grace of a hunter. I paused behind a tree and ventured a glance into the small back garden, seeking out the source of the sound. A light breeze lifted in the air and I was overpowered with the delicate scent of lavender and rosewater. A ghostly vision in white wandered into my view and I reached out to grab the tree for support. It was Victoria.

She looked so much like she did the day of the fire: her red tangle of curls spilling around her face and shoulders, her bare feet treading softly on the dark earth, the hem of her white nightgown fluttering with her movement. That much was the same, and yet everything else was entirely different. She was older. Her figure had filled out with maturity, and the improvement of her posture made her seem taller than I remembered. Beyond that, her cheeks were blushed a healthy pink and her eyes sparkled with a vitality I'd never seen in her before. Could this really be the same frightened girl I sent away for her own safety five years ago? She seemed so... _happy_. She'd obviously found a way to live – and thrive – without me. I felt a dull ache where my heart used to be at the thought. The young woman in the garden before me smiled softly to herself at some private thought, and I rested my forehead against the rough bark of the tree, just admiring the pretty picture she made.

All at once she stopped walking and looked around. I was on alert in an instant. Had she heard me?

"Is someone there?" she called out in a high, clear voice. She turned her face in my direction and I nearly crumbled under the weight of her soft, brown eyes. This was the moment I had been dreading. A decision lay before me and I was torn between two factors: her well-being and my own selfish curiosity. If I left now, she would be safe, but I would be unsatisfied...

Reckless impulse and my insatiable curiosity got the better of me, and I stepped out of the shadows into her field of sight. "Victoria," I said softly, not wishing to alarm her. My legs tensed instinctively, ready to run if necessary. Humans were dangerously unpredictable, and I didn't want to risk hurting her if she reacted badly.

Her eyes widened, but she remained resolutely in place. "You found me," she whispered, her human eyes slowly taking in my strange appearance, no doubt trying to comprehend my presence here. What had she thought when she left me those years ago? Had she thought me dead? Did she know what kind of monster I had become?

I didn't respond as I made my way slowly towards her. Her dark, doe eyes were fixed upon mine, the soft pout of her lips parted slightly in disbelief. She was so lovely. I came to a stop right in front of her, the faint heat of her body radiating out from her and warming the cold, bare skin of my chest. Through the ground below us I felt the tiny vibrations of her trembling, but she looked up at me with nothing like fear, her eyes shimmering instead with tears. I could hardly believe she was real. Impulsively, I reached out to touch her hair, the scent of lavender and rosewater tumbling out as I ran my fingers through it. But there was another, more interesting scent lying just beneath. All at once I was inundated with the warm, tangy smell of her blood, rising quickly to the surface as her skin flushed in response to my touch. Unsolicited venom rushed into my mouth, my eyes turning dark with thirst. The desire to kill her rushed over me so fast that I almost succumbed to it before I realized what I was thinking.

I froze my hand in place in her hair, swallowing the unwanted venom down hard and resolving to keep my breath held. She blinked up at me innocently, unaware that anything out of the ordinary had happened. _You don't want to hurt her_, I reminded myself. I could do this. I could do this.

"Do you know what I am?" I asked her when I felt better in control of myself.

"Yes," she said, reaching a tentative hand up to explore the contours of my face with curiosity. I closed my eyes as her sweet breath drifted up to me. "You're James," she said, her voice breaking with some unnamed emotion. She cupped my face in both hands and smiled slightly. "You haven't changed at all," she marveled, sweeping one thumb over my mouth.

Without thinking, I parted my lips to touch my tongue to her finger. My grip in her hair tightened and I groaned softly as the salty taste of her skin filled my senses. My control was slipping again, and in the blink of an eye I had grabbed her hands and secured them behind her back. She emitted a small cry of surprise, but did not struggle against my hold. The world around us stopped moving, leaving the still air thick with tension. "Yes, Victoria, I _have_ changed," I all but growled at her, the wild beating of her frightened heart against my chest doing nothing to calm my disgusting urges. Never had I felt more like a monster than in that moment when Victoria looked up at me with real fear. "You know what I am," I said more calmly, trying to focus on her beautiful face and not the intoxicating rush of her blood beneath her skin.

"Yes," she answered after a pause.

"Does that scare you?" I asked, my hands tightening unconsciously around the throbbing pulse points of her wrists. She had my complete attention now; each particle of my being was keenly attuned to her every movement, her every reaction. She could have asked me to claw out my own eyes in that moment and I would have obliged, if only to have one more taste of her. My tongue drew itself over my lips of its own accord, my body begging me to give in to its needs.

"A little," she admitted in a small voice, her eyes moving to watch my mouth intently. To my astonishment, she pressed her soft body closer, molding it to mine. "Are you going to hurt me, James?" she asked, not sounding particularly interested in my answer. When she lifted her eyes again I could see they were heavy with desire. Of course they would be. Every facet of my new predator's body was designed to seduce its prey. Whatever lust Victoria was feeling now was elicited by body's natural weapons and not by any residual affection she might have for me.

It didn't make me want her any less.

I found myself lowering my mouth to hers, claiming it in a kiss. She moaned when our lips met, melting perfectly under my touch. It was better than anything I could have imagined. My mind was swimming with her scent, her taste, the feel of her body against mine. It was so good, but my body craved more of her. It _needed_ more. I released her wrists, drawing one hand up her back to tangle in her hair and sliding the other down over the swell of her backside, pulling her body tight against my pelvis. She gasped against my mouth and lifted her hips in response, the unexpected friction eliciting a hiss of pleasure from me. She wrapped her arms around my neck and I let my mouth wander down her jaw, down to the sweet spot below the bone where her pulse beat so eagerly against my tongue. She let her head fall back, her fingers finding their way into my hair, encouraging me. My mind was clouded by the tantalizing aroma of her blood and the teasing taste of her skin; rational thought was impossible. I opened my mouth – just for a second, I told myself – and let my teeth graze lightly – just one more taste, I promised myself – over her heated skin. Her body shivered, but she did not pull away. She was willing to do let me do this. She _wanted_ me to do this.

I came to my senses and ripped myself off of her, pulling myself way with every ounce of control that I possessed. I stopped on the opposite side of the garden and shoved my hand into my mouth, pushing the razor sharp points of my teeth into my own skin as hard as I could, letting the pain of the venom distract me as it coursed through my body. I was so far gone at this point that it had only a minimal effect, but it was enough to recall me to reality. I pulled my hand away from my mouth and looked to her, panting and confused on the other side of the garden.

"What's wrong?" she asked, her face twisted with concern. She would have let me drain her dry without even realizing it, and she had the audacity to be anxious for _my_ well-being.

"This was a mistake," I said, my voice trembling slightly with the effort it was taking to keep myself from rushing across the yard and forcing myself on her again. "I'm sorry," I said sincerely, turning to leave. I should never have come. I should have left well enough alone.

She crossed the yard with surprising speed for a human. "James," she pleaded, cautiously touching her hand to mine. "Please don't go."

I turned back to look at her and was powerless to move.

"Please come inside," she continued, tugging lightly on my uninjured hand. "Please."

Some of us are unfortunate enough to be cursed with monumental decisions such as these. Some of us are stupid enough to believe we are capable of choosing a correct answer. Some of us are crazy enough to believe there is a right answer at all.

I took a deep breath, nodded, and, for better or for worse, I followed Victoria inside the cottage.

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**Thoughts, comments, or suggestions are greatly appreciated!**


	16. Choice

**All Twilight characters are the property of Stephenie Meyer.**

**I apologize profusely for my tardiness. Let's blame it on the holidays, shall we? Thank you to all who reviewed last chapter, and a special thanks to Seraphine Deese de la Nuit for beta-ing this chapter for me. I do so hope you enjoy it as much as I did ;)**

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**Choice**

_Victoria's POV_

I took one breath, two breaths – a third. I was floating along as if in a dream back through the doorway of my cottage, my hand gripped lightly around that of a ghost.

"Make yourself at home," I said quietly as I crossed the threshold and made my way across the room to light a lamp. I didn't let go of his hand, but I didn't look back at him either. I was afraid to look back at him – afraid that if I did he'd melt away into the dark corners of my mind where I entertained such masochistic fantasies. I'd be lying if I said I never imagined James coming back for me one day, but my joy at seeing him was altogether unpredicted. I'd spent the past five years carefully channeling my anger towards him into a hatred I could use to comfort myself whenever I was tempted to miss him. The last thing I expected was for that hatred to be completely forgotten the moment he appeared in my garden, looking as beautiful and untouched as if he had been frozen in time the last day I saw him – the day he murdered my father.

The lamp lit, I stopped in place, just staring at the flickering of the tiny flame. I could feel James moving closer to me, felt him drop my hand from his and just stand behind me – not touching, not breathing. His presence behind me was drawing me with a magnetism that was dizzying in its strength. Every part of my body wanted to lean back into the comforting strength of his chest, to turn around and throw myself into his arms again – and that scared me. How had I allowed myself to lose every ounce of self-control I'd harnessed over the years? How was it that just being in the same room as him made me go mad? Maybe if I didn't move, I wouldn't wake up and find this all a nightmare.

Suddenly, I felt him move away from me, and the air warmed in his absence. The breath I'd been holding tumbled out in a gush. Of course it hadn't been real. It was late and I was lonely; it wasn't unreasonable that my traitorous mind would turn to James.

But suddenly, I heard the click of the door lock sliding into place. I turned and my heart leaped when I saw that James was still there, standing by the door with his back to me, one hand pressed tentatively to dark wood panel as if in decision. He turned to me slowly and raised his strange, ruby eyes to mine. "You have to understand how dangerous this is," he said, so softly I barely heard him - but then, perhaps he wasn't talking to me at all.

"I'm not afraid of you," I said, giving in to the urge to move towards him. We'd seen the best and worst of each other before – how could it be any worse now that he was a...? I couldn't even admit what he was in the privacy of my own thoughts.

He held up his hand to stop me, and I did, nervously twisting my fingers into the fabric of my nightgown as I waited for him to choose his next words. "Victoria, please," he said. "You're just saying that because... You have to... you have to give me a minute." He broke off and turned his head, finding the table and two chairs by the window. Before I could even comprehend that he was moving, he was seated in one of the chairs, his elbows propped up on the table and his hands curled into fists over his closed eyes. He appeared to be deep in thought or meditation. I started forward to take the seat opposite him, but his words stopped me. "Please," he said hoarsely, not even looking up at me. "Please, stay over there."

Staying away from James was the furthest thing from my mind at the moment, but I didn't want to risk upsetting him and him leaving, so I complied. I went to the fire instead and had already set the kettle over it before I realized that James probably had little interest in tea in his new state. I set the kettle aside and moved instead to the cupboard, where I took down the bottle of sherry I usually reserved for guests. I uncorked it as quietly as I could and took a discreet sip to calm my erratic pulse. My fingers shook slightly as I replaced the stopper, but its sweet, burning heat was already spreading like a warming blanket over me, soothing me.

James looked up at me again when I pushed the cupboard door closed. "You drink now?" he asked mildly, the barely imperceptible quirk of his mouth hinting at a smile.

His question caught me off guard with its very absurdity in the face of this otherwise tense situation. "Not by habit," I said defensively, turning my back to the cupboard and leaning against it. "Only with company."

"Are you feeling better?" he asked coolly, his eyes narrowing to inspect me.

"Better?" I asked, puzzled.

"Better than you did outside a moment ago," he said. "When you let me kiss you."

My cheeks flushed and I folded my arms across my chest self-consciously. "I'm not sure what you mean by that," I admitted, wondering how anything would feel better than _that_. My lips tingled anew in memory of his mouth against mine, his arms pulling me flush against his body, his hands in my hair... Internally I cursed myself for behaving so shamelessly. I wasn't the same infatuated child he'd sent away, but here I was acting like her. The fact that he still had that effect on me angered me.

He made a slight noise that might have been a sigh - had he been breathing. "It's a trick of the trade, Victoria. Vampires have several qualities that make humans more, ah, compliant." He offered me a slight shrug of his shoulders in apology.

I bristled as he said the word 'vampire'. Even though the truth of his new state was staring me straight in the face, my mind refused to believe it. He wasn't any kind of monster. He was my James. "You think I only kissed you because you tricked me?" I asked, biting back a laugh at how silly it sounded. Had he forgotten how I'd loved him? My next thought gave me pause: had he forgotten how he'd loved me?

He didn't answer me, choosing instead to look me over. "You're very different," he said finally.

His words hurt me, even if he didn't intend them to. I knew I looked much different than the frightened little girl he'd sent away from Canyon Ridge five years ago. Years of working and childbirth are not kind to the female form, and I realized now that he was disappointed by my alteration. "I'm sorry," I whispered, looking down at the floor. Tears of humiliation pricked the backs of my eyes.

"That's not what I meant," he snapped, his silky voice edged with anger. He softened slightly at my bewilderment and added, "You look very well."

I smiled, not entirely believing him. "So do you."

He brushed off my compliment. "How have you been taking care of yourself?" He inclined his head to indicate the cottage. "Is this place yours?"

I straightened my back against the cupboard, thankful for an easy question to answer. "I'm a teacher," I told him. "This cottage belongs to whomever holds that position." I was proud of the life I'd built here, and I was glad that he could see it. I wondered idly if he remembered that it was once _he_ who had suggested I become a teacher and claim my own independence.

His eyes flicked over to the bed, whose oversized proportions suggested that it was designed for more than one occupant. "Do you live here alone?" His jaw tightened as he asked, but he kept his face a mask of indifference.

"Yes," I answered quickly, understanding where his train of thought was leading. "There's never been anyone else," I added unnecessarily, and immediately regretted that I had. How pathetic must I look to him? A lonely old spinster, still hopelessly in love with her childhood hero.

He seemed to relax slightly, lowering his hands and placing them with palms flat on the table before him. "Are you... happy?" he asked, tilting his head curiously at me, as if he was unsure what the word meant.

"No," I admitted before I realized what I was saying. "I mean, I was... before when I thought – that is, after I had the... Oh God." I was getting flustered; my words were tumbling out of my mouth faster than I could stop them and becoming muddled in the process. His gaze never wavered from mine as I tried to stutter out an answer, but I was getting too worked up. I was letting myself feel things I hadn't felt in years. The pain of losing him, the betrayal of my father's murder, the guilt I had in not loving our child the way I ought... _Oh God, our child_, I remembered with horror. I snapped my mouth shut and turned around, wrenching open the cabinet and grabbing for the sherry again. He said nothing as I drank three desperate gulps from the bottle and set it down loudly on the shelf, using the cupboard to brace myself against further outbursts. I was quickly losing control of myself, and if I didn't calm down I was going to end up throwing myself into a sobbing heap at his feet and cause him to leave me again.

"Why did you come back?" I demanded, my voice tinged with all the ice I could muster. "After five years – why _now_, James?" I turned around to face him, the blessed sherry working its magic to steel my nerves.

He bowed his head, choosing his answer carefully. "I didn't remember," he mumbled, his voice devoid of any discernible emotion. "I only just remembered."

"You _forgot_ me?" I gasped, feeling that one remaining piece of my heart shatter into a million different pieces. A bitter tear slipped down my cheek and I tried to wipe it away before he could see it. How could he have forgotten me, when I'd spent every waking moment thinking about him? Hating him, loving him, missing him – and it meant nothing to him?

"I didn't _mean_ to forget," he said, some heat rising into his voice. "When I changed, I didn't remember anything about before – not even my own name. I _still_ don't remember everything. Where was I born? Who were my parents? I don't have a fucking clue. It's not who I am anymore. I'm not the man you knew before, Victoria."

"Yes, you are," I whispered, pushing aside the sherry and closing the cupboard door behind me. "At least some small part of you is him. Why else would you come back to me if you didn't... didn't..." _...didn't care for me? _I finished internally.I started to walk slowly towards him, my heart racing with the excitement of being close to him again, my mind spinning with my newfound resolve. He _was_ the James I'd loved, whether he believed it or not, and I would show him.

As I walked, he sat absolutely still in the chair, his white hands clutching the spindly pine legs as if he were afraid they would run off without him. He looked just like an elegant statue then, the dim light of the candle shimmering over the polished marble of his chest, making his black eyes glitter like obsidian glass. This creature certainly _looked_ like James – a breathtakingly beautiful version of James, but James nonetheless. It was as if some artist had taken his likeness and carved it into stone. I stopped just before him, the starched material of my nightgown brushing lightly against his knees.

"What are you doing, Victoria?" His dark eyes captured mine in a penetrating stare, and I was powerless to break gaze with him as I began to untie the ribbon at the neck of my gown.

"Reminding you why you came back," I said, still spellbound by his eyes locked with mine. I lowered my hands to my hips, where I began to gather the fabric of my nightgown, slowly inching it upwards to reveal my calves, my knees, a hint of my thighs. "Do you remember this?" I asked breathlessly, raising the fabric at an agonizingly measured pace over my bare hips and stomach, pausing when it reached my breasts to cross my hands, allowing me to pull the gown off and over my head in one smooth motion. I let it fall to the ground, finally managing to lower my eyes, and I waited for his reaction.

"Victoria..." he growled low in disapproval. But when I flicked a nervous glance up I could see his eyes taking a slow, calculating sweep of my naked body before him. I felt my skin warming to a blush as he inspected me, all at once excited and ashamed to be in such a vulnerable state before him. I heard him inhale once, sharply, and exhale a long, bracing breath. "This is not why I came back," he said, his voice taut with restraint.

I wanted him to remember so desperately it ached, somewhere deep in the hollow of my breast. I moved a step forward, my legs having no place to go but on either side of his, the rough material of his trousers rubbing teasingly against the inside of my legs. "It's not?" I asked him, my breath shallow. I wanted so badly for him to say something, to touch me - anything to let me know he remembered that we were in love once.

He squeezed his eyes shut and turned his head away, obviously struggling with some internal conflict. "I came back to make sure you were all right. That you were taken care of."

"But I'm not all right," I answered, raising my hands to his shoulders. I let my fingertips wander over the front of his chest, taking in every indentation and angle of his muscles. I slid my hands beneath his suspender straps and pushed them down his arms. He didn't move - didn't blink - as I touched him, instead just staring straight at me with his dark eyes – now almost black instead of red – as if he were looking right through me. When he made no move to stop me, I trailed my fingers up to his jaw and turned his head gently from side to side, cataloguing every feature, trying to guess how many nights this face had haunted me. "I've missed you," I admitted in a small voice. I lowered myself slowly onto his lap, sucking in a sharp breath as my tender flesh made contact with the harsh wool of his lap.

"Don't..." he started to say, then made a strangled sound as I adjusted my position on his lap.

"Don't what?" I asked innocently. I bent my head and gave his lips a short kiss, surprising myself again at how cold they were against mine. He hummed and tightened his jaw, but made no move to return my kiss. Disappointed in his response, I pulled my mouth down to the hollow of his throat. His skin tasted so clean and cool, as if I were kissing some Classical bust instead of a real man. I let my teeth graze the tender area just below his jaw. To me it felt like scraping my nails across a chalkboard, but it drove him wild. No pulse beat beneath my lips, but other parts of his body were responding keenly to my touch. I could feel his growing arousal beneath me, and it took all of my sense of self-possession not to move against him in response. I returned to his mouth, kissing his unmoving lips without restraint, giving vent to all the feelings of frustration built up over years of loneliness.

He remained motionless in turn.

"Why won't you kiss me?" I asked, kissing along his jaw up to his ear. I felt like screaming – like beating my fists against his chest until he answered me – but I forced myself to maintain control. Somewhere under this shell of a monster was the man I loved. "Don't you want me?" I asked. I lowered one of my hands to the button of his trousers and worked it open, only to be caught harshly around the wrist by the vice-like grip of his hand.

"Stop it, Vicky," he snarled, his eyes suddenly wild and animal.

I froze in terror, my heart hammering hard against my chest. "You're hurting me," I whimpered, trying in vain to remove my wrist from his painful grasp.

"I might do a lot worse if you don't stop," he snapped. "Just being in the same room with you drives me insane. And when you touch me... I could kill you, Vicky – don't you understand that?"

"Then go ahead and kill me, James!" I roared in response, finally getting my wrist free and standing up to walk away. "I'd rather be dead than go on living knowing that you can't stand being in the same room with me!" I turned away from him, hot tears already spilling angrily down my cheeks. I'd been such a fool. He hadn't wanted me five years ago, and he didn't want me now.

Before I could take another step, I felt my feet leave the ground as cold hands hauled me backwards by my hips, pulling me roughly onto James' lap. "Shh, don't move," he whispered, lowering his mouth to my ear, his voice dangerous and all at once alluring. I sat frozen on his lap, not daring to move or even breathe without his permission. He moved one hand up from my waist, eliciting a sharp gasp from me as his cold fingertips burned a slow path up my abdomen to my ribcage. "You're shaking," he observed, cupping one of my breasts and fanning his thumb over its hardened peak.

My skin burned and tingled in the wake of his touch, and a pleasurable chill shook through me. "Your hands are cold," I whispered in explanation, my pulse racing as a wave of panic overtook me. James wouldn't really hurt me, would he?

"You're frightened," he said flatly, trailing his nose along the side of my neck and inhaling deeply as he took his time learning my scent. "I can smell it."

"What else do I smell like?" I asked stupidly, my mind all at once drunk with his proximity.

"Like lavender, and roses," he said, his voice relaxed and soothing. "And heat, and skin, and salt." He smoothed his hand down the plane of my stomach, then slipped his fingers between my legs. "...and like you want me to fuck you."

I cried out loudly as he teased his fingers over the swollen bud of my desire. "Yes," I gasped, sagging back against his hard chest under his skilled touch, spreading my legs wider for him as he slid a cool finger inside me. "Ohh, yes," I said raggedly, grinding my backside against the swell of his arousal beneath me.

"Then ask me," he said, withdrawing his fingers and bringing them to his lips.

"Ask you what?" I whined, my eyes widening in alarm as I watched him lick his fingers.

"Ask me," James said very slowly and deliberately, looking straight at me, "to fuck you."

I blushed in mortification. Was this James talking or the creature he'd become? I found that I was starting not to care. Never in my life had I ever said anything so vulgar, but never in my life had I wanted something so desperately as I did right now. "Will you fuck me, James?" I asked in a small voice, mortified, but craving his touch more than anything the world.

He made an indistinguishable noise somewhere between a groan and a growl, and turned my face to his to meet me in a kiss. The softness of his mouth took me by surprise, and I stopped moving on his lap to give his kiss my full attention, allowing him to lead me. I moaned against his lips as he deepened the kiss and tasted me with his tongue. He lowered a hand between us, raising his other hand to my hip to brace me as he guided his hard length inside me.

"Oh!" I gasped in shock and relief as he entered me, surprised at first at how unusually cold he was. He stopped moving beneath me, and I squirmed impatiently on top of him, trying to push him deeper into me. "James," I pleaded, looking back at him. "What's wrong?"

"Be patient, darling," he said, his voice twisted with what sounded like amusement. "Here, try this," he said, gripping my hips and guiding them up and down.

I bit my lip nervously and moved experimentally in the manner he directed. "Like this? _Ohh_..." I said, moaning again as he pulled me down hard onto his length, filling me completely. My skin smoldered where his touched it, the combination of hot and cold making me shiver and overheat all at once. I closed my eyes and gave myself over to the sensation, letting my mind go from all the anger and pain I'd been carrying.

"Mmm..." James hummed in agreement, pulling his hands up to hold my breasts as I began to find my rhythm, lifting and dropping my hips faster and faster in time with his. He dragged his mouth to my neck, sucking hard on the point of my throbbing pulse. He needed me as much as I needed him, and we moved together in sync, matching each other stroke for stroke.

"_James,_" I called loudly, every muscle in my body tightening in anticipation of my release. He dug his nails painfully into my skin as he thrust up faster into me, muttering something too low for me to hear in an impossibly rapid stream against my neck. I screamed as my climax washed over me, dissolving every particle of my being into a worthless lump of clay, putty in James' hands to be shaped back into whatever he desired. I might have tricked my mind all these years into thinking I was free of James, but my body knew who was its rightful master.

At first I thought the sensation of falling was the aftershock of my pleasure, but when I landed with bone-rattling force on the hard, wooden floor I realized that James had dropped me. I caught my breath and rubbed my sore elbows with confusion, looking around for where he'd gone. I found him sitting on the edge of my bed, one hand covering his eyes, the other shoved between the dangerous points of his teeth.

"James," I said reproachfully, pulling myself to my feet with the aid of the table and starting towards him cautiously. "Are you all right?"

"This isn't going to work," he said, his voice hollow with defeat. He dragged both his hands down his face and bowed his head.

I picked up my discarded nightgown and held it up against my naked body self-consciously. "I love you," I said quietly, taking another step towards him.

"I know," he said from behind his hands.

"...and you love me," I supplied, forcing more confidence into my voice than I felt.

He hesitated before answering. "I know."

I closed my eyes as a thrill passed through me, mentally praising whatever gods were above for his answer. I opened my eyes again and took another step. "So you can't leave me again, James. I won't let you."

He lowered his hands and looked at me miserably, the rims of his alien red eyes strained and swollen as if he'd been crying – or trying to. "Vicky, we're too different. It won't work."

I crossed the remaining distance and took his hands into mine. I was surprised to feel that they were shaking. "Then make me like you are," I said with feeling, kneeling down in front of him and looking up at him pleadingly. "Please, James."

He looked down at me with pity. "I can't do that."

I set my jaw. "You can't? Or you _won't_?"

He shook his head helplessly. "To do that I'd have to... I'd have to bite you, Vicky. It will hurt worse than anything you can imagine."

I raised an eyebrow at him, thinking of the pain I'd endured during childbirth, but said nothing. "It will be worth it," I said honestly. "I'll be with you."

"_No_," he said, dropping my hands and standing up. He stormed over to the window and began pacing, pulling anxiously at his closely cropped hair. "Once I bite someone, it's almost impossible to stop. I might kill you before the change could take place. It's too dangerous. I won't risk it."

I stood up. "So that's it, then?" I snapped at him. "You walked back into my life just to walk right back out? Don't you think that leaving now would hurt even _worse_?"

He turned his back to me as he pulled what little he had of his clothes back together. "I should leave," he mumbled, making for the door.

_No_, I thought mutinously. He didn't get to make this choice for me. James had spent the entire course of our relationship pushing me away for the sake of protecting me, and I had let him. It hadn't been my choice to start my life over from scratch in Washington, it hadn't been my choice to have James' baby, nor had it been my choice to keep his secret. _This_ was my choice.

"Like hell you will..." I hissed, reaching for the butcher's block on the counter and drawing out the longest, sharpest knife I could find. "You can either turn me," I said, flicking the knife's tip across the underside of my jaw – deep enough to ensure that it would produce blood. "Or you can kill me." Blood rose to the surface where I'd nicked and spilled down my throat in a thin trickle.

He whirled around the second he detected blood, his eyes black and crazed. "What are you doing?" he growled, furious, his chest heaving as he gasped in deep breaths, tasting the blood through the air.

"Making my own decision," I spat back at him, letting my head fall back defiantly to expose my neck to him. "Now you make _yours_."

I never saw him coming. I never even felt him touch me. But the next thing I knew, my body was screaming with the most intense pain I'd ever imagined, burning like a thousand angry needles under my skin, in the marrow of my bones. "James!" I screamed, falling to my knees and grabbing at my throat, feeling the wound where he'd bitten me. I sucked in air desperately, each breath feeling like a poisonous gas as it filled my lungs, burning me from the inside out. "Wait!"

"I'm sorry," he whispered from the other side of the room, where he stood with his back pressed up against the door, ready to bolt at any second. "I can't stay - there's too much blood..." Even as he spoke he was crushing the brass knob behind to bits in his hand. "I'll come back, though. I swear it, Vicky," he said, his voice firm with conviction.

"In case... I forget..." I croaked, crumpling to the ground as my muscles spasmed and ripped apart under my skin as the poison of his bite spread.

"What is it?" he asked, his voice sounding high and unnatural in my ears, which were ringing louder than a hurricane.

"_Our child_," I choked out, feeling myself slip backwards into the darkness.

And then I was alone in the room, with nothing but the sound of my own screaming.

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**Thoughts, comments, or criticisms are greatly appreciated!**


	17. Transformation

**All Twilight characters are the property of Stephenie Meyer.**

**To answer your questions regarding my absence – yes, I died. But luckily for you, I came back to life and wrote a new chapter.**

**Now presenting the moment we've all been waiting for... Well, I have at least ;)**

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**Transformation**

_James' POV_

I sank to the ground against the outside wall of Victoria's cottage, dragging my hands ragged down the sides of my face and pressing them against my ears, mounting a futile attempt to block out the all-at-once horrifying and enticing sound of her screaming within. Even if I had been able to withstand the overpowering desire to drink what was left of her blood, I didn't think I could tolerate the sight of her in so much pain – pain that _I _had caused her. I couldn't stop picturing her beautiful, trusting eyes as they gazed up into mine. I couldn't stop imagining her hot skin sliding against mine, the delicious weight of her in my lap, the fleeting but intoxicating taste of her blood on my murderous lips... I had killed her. I had killed the woman I loved. Even if she survived the agony of her transformation, she wouldn't be my Vicky any longer. She'd be a creature – a monster, like me. She may have asked for this damnation, but I had no right to give it to her. This was my burden to bear – not hers. I should have just left the second I laid eyes on her and let her enjoy her quiet, brief existence without me.

"What have I done?" I groaned, clenching my eyes tight against the dull ache throbbing behind them. She screamed again and I cringed, jumping to my feet and taking up an anxious pace of the garden. I glanced up to the fields beyond and saw that the first glows of sunrise were beginning to shimmer on the horizon. It would be day soon, and then what would happen? The spell we'd been enveloped in the night before would be broken, and hard consequences would have to be faced. Who would notice Victoria was missing first? Her employer? A well-intentioned neighbor? A close friend? A shaky lungful of unnecessary breath hissed out between my lips in apprehension. Would she even recognize them before she ripped them to shreds?

I growled with frustration and ripped a branch from the low-hanging tree that sheltered the small garden from the steadily rising sun. Her last words were niggling uncomfortably at the back of my mind, managing to needle through the haze of guilt. _Our child_, she'd said. I understood what the words meant in theory, but in practice I couldn't wrap my addled brain around them. I was trying desperately to remember everything about our time together as real people, before I became this hideous shell of a man. It made no sense to me at all. I found it hard to believe I'd forget something of as much importance as _a child_ – but then, I'd forgotten Victoria for at least five years. My curiosity demanded satisfaction, but I hadn't the slightest idea how to achieve it. Victoria would be unconscious for at least three days – assuming she survived, I amended soberly to myself – and then when she awoke, there was no guarantee she'd remember even a second of her previous life. _Or anything about me._

I paced for what must have been hours. My soul was divided. Half of me wanted so desperately to go to her, to ease her suffering, to put her out of her misery. The other half of me wanted to run away as fast as my legs would take me, so that I could no longer be a pox on her life.

But I wouldn't leave her, I vowed to myself. Never again.

Eventually, the screaming stopped. I looked up from pacing, realizing with surprise that the sun was already hanging low in the sky again and the evening crickets were awaking in the lengthening shadows. I rushed to the window and ventured a look inside. The silence inside the little cottage was as oppressive as a tomb, and indeed, my beautiful little darling lay stretched across the floor on her back as if on her funeral altar, her eyes and mouth gently closed in eternal sleep. I could hear no heart beat through the thin walls; I could feel no warmth.

Victoria was dead.

A terrible, foreign sound clawed its way up my throat and poured out into the twilight, its hollow tone echoing strangely even in my own ears. I fell to my knees, wanting nothing more but to rip apart my own chest and sob, but I was denied even that small indulgence by my monstrous deformity. My nature didn't even allow me to shed a tear over the death of the only woman I'd ever loved.

A familiar presence itched in my mind, somewhere in the immediate distance.

"Leave me alone," I growled threateningly as I sensed Laurent enter the garden behind me.

He made an exasperated sound. "After I went through all the trouble of finding you? _Je ne crois pas_. It is your fault I even found you, after all. What did you mean by howling like that for all the world to hear?" He walked around me and actually hissed in a surprised breath when I lifted my red-rimmed eyes to look at him. "What is the matter with you? Did you find Victoria?" he asked, his nostrils flaring slightly as he detected the scent of blood and death about me. His eyes widened in appreciation. "Oh, James..." he said, taking a horrified step away from me. "...you didn't."

"She's dead," I spat out.

His dark features twisted in anger. "_Fool_." He bared the dazzling row of his teeth to me. "You weak, arrogant _fool!_" he spit out, his eyes dark with rage. "I _warned_ you of this – and yet you ignored me!"

"Don't you think I know that?" I snarled, leaping to my feet and mirroring his threatening posture. "That I don't fucking _hate_ myself?"

"You deserve your misery," he sneered and turned away from me in disgust.

I let out a roar in response, and sprang onto his turned back in fury, my possessed fingers seeking purchase on any limb that I might rend from his wretched body; my teeth and claws sought any opportunity to maim, to punish, to expel some of the putrid wrath boiling over inside me. But I no longer had the advantage in strength over Laurent, and he responded in kind to my assault, biting and ripping and punching, knowing every weakness to exploit or reaction to anticipate. We hadn't fought this way since I was a newborn, and now he was taking no pains to restrain himself in protection of Benito's newest coven member. I _felt_ his anger with every strike, as he felt my grief with every counter blow. We fought like two faceless _gigantes_ at the dawn of time, oblivious to the world around us, every feature contorted beyond recognition into a lethal mask of violence.

At last, my exhaustion overcame me and I faltered, sinking to the ground under the weight of Laurent's knee and lying in a daze as he dealt blow after blow to my face. I didn't struggle anymore, just allowed the pain to seep in and fill all the chinks in my proverbial armor that only one night with Victoria had inflicted. There's something cathartic about receiving the punishment you know you deserve, and I welcomed it with open arms.

Laurent sensed my surrender and pulled back, gasping in lungfuls of superfluous air to calm himself. "Have you had enou—" he started to say, then all at once broke off, snapping his head back towards the cottage. "What was that?" he hissed in a harsh whisper, his face signaling alarm.

I hadn't been able to perceive any sound other than the severe ringing in my ears. "What?" I asked warily, dragging myself up to a half-seated position and scanning the dark garden for whatever might have alerted Laurent. I could detect no other presences than our own in my mind, but my senses were still recovering from our scuffle.

He brought a finger to his lips to shush me, the surface cracks on his skin (from what injuries I had managed to inflict) healing over with a muffled crackle as he sat still as stone, watching the cottage door. I quieted my buzzing ears as best I could, and listened as well.

A muffled whimper followed and then died down, forgotten, as though the noise was a product of an unpleasant dream in the midst of heavy sleep. I frowned, unable to guess the noise's source. Surely only Victoria had been present in the cottage?

Laurent spun around to face me. "I thought you said she was dead," he said, his eyes dilating with apprehension.

"She was!" I protested, looking between his stony face and the closed cottage door. "I heard her breathe her last," I assured him, suddenly not so certain myself. Was Victoria yet alive? I brushed past him to reach for the doorknob, but he stepped abruptly in front of me.

"Did you initiate the change?" he asked, his voice low and serious.

"Get out of my way," I hissed, trying to force him bodily aside. I needed to see for myself that Victoria was dead. I needed to quell this sickly sweet sensation of _hope_ that was burgeoning unwanted in my chest.

"Did you bite her," he persisted, not budging from his position blocking the low, wooden door, "and leave her blood undrunk?"

"I did," I told him, "and then I listened to her scream all night while she bled to death!"

This declaration seemed to shock Laurent just enough so that I could push him aside and wrench open the door for myself. My eyes flew to Victoria's prostrate form, stretched naked and bloodied across the hearth rug like an offering to whatever gods commanded the absent fire in the cold pit behind her. It was an undignified death. I rushed to her, pulling her discarded nightgown over her body before Laurent could see the shameful state I'd left her in. As I touched her cold skin, she stirred slightly as if in sleep, her head lolling to one side. Her eyelids parted to reveal glassy, unseeing eyes, staring blankly up at me.

I gasped and drew back to regard her, my jaw extending lower and lower in horror as the soft brown of her irises slowly clouded over with muddy red. "Oh God," I whispered, "she's..."

I heard Laurent follow me into the cottage, his graceful step all but stifled by the oppressive silence. "...turning," he concluded for me, his voice returned to its usual melodic tone, but his jaw still set tight with disapproval. "You know the rules on turning humans, James. You do realize that if Benito finds out he'll have her killed. It might have been kinder for you to have done it yourself when you had the chance."

I turned back to him, and something in my helpless expression was enough to cause him to abate. "How long since she was bitten?" he asked in a kinder, disinterested voice.

"A little over a day," I answered without thinking, lowering my eyes to the floor, my mind racing with conflicting thoughts and emotions. I'd only just reconciled myself to Victoria's death, and now I was having to address the possibility that I'd done much worse: I'd made her a monster like me.

I looked up and could see Laurent was calculating the possibilities as well, his mouth screwed up in a thoughtful purse. "We don't have much time left," he said after a few seconds. "Do you know if she'll be missed by anyone?"

I shook my head in the negative, and then paused. "Wait, yes," I answered, thinking back to our conversation the previous day. "She's a teacher. Someone will notice if she's not in the schoolroom." I looked back down at her – my dear, sweet, little Vicky – and stroked her hair, trying to soothe whatever agony she must be in. I could barely remember the pain of my own transformation, but I understood it to be the worst pain imaginable. I reached for her lifeless hand and squeezed it, trying to communicate to her that I'd be here to suffer through it along with her.

"We must find her something to eat. Something she won't regret killing," Laurent continued. His eyes swept over the chaos of the room – the overturned chair, the discarded knife, the pool of blood – and he frowned. "And we must clean up this _désordre_. I can manage the blood if you'll go..."

I cut him off. "No. I'm staying here."

He raised an eyebrow at my authoritative tone, but did not correct me. "Very well. I shall return before morning," he said, and bent at the waist in his habitual bow before taking his leave.

After Laurent's departure, I set to work. I began first by washing and dressing Victoria's body again, the blood that covered her having dried sufficiently that it did not drive me to distraction as it had the day before. I scrubbed like a man possessed at her smooth, pale skin, anxious to rid her of any lingering traces of death. I closed her eyes with my fingertips after some time, finding I didn't like the weight of her red gaze on my face while I worked. I knew not if she was actually seeing _me_ or some symptom of her nightmare, but I didn't care for either possibility. After dressing her in a clean nightgown I tucked her into her bed, piling on extra blankets as if they could do anything to warm her cold skin, which would remain chilled now forever. With her eyelashes demurely fanned over the apples of her cheek, and her hands clasped neatly over her breast, she appeared for all the world like an angel, but I knew beneath the smile I'd sculpted the devil was waging an unholy war.

I turned away from her with defeat, and set to work righting the havoc I'd created in her otherwise neat cottage. Once I had set all the furniture back to its usual place, I turned to the dark smear of blood on the oak paneled floor before the fireplace. Though I scoured decades of polish layers from the floorboards, the blood remained unmoved. The stain taunted me as I clawed and peeled at the floor around it, trying in vain to erase any sign of my transgression. After I realized I was only drawing additional attention to the stain by gouging a dip in the floor, I abandoned the effort. A heavy wool rug nailed into place would have to suffice, though it itched me beneath my skin to leave so telling a reminder intact.

Reasonably satisfied with the (ostensibly) innocuous arrangement of the room, I returned to the bed to sit beside Victoria. I stroked her lifeless hand for a few moments, too mentally exhausted to do anything more. Eventually I stretched out on the bed next to her and drew her cool body next to mine. I reflected that now that our skins were of a temperature, our embrace felt closer to what might be natural. As natural as two scourges of the earth embracing can be, at any rate. I collapsed my forehead against her temple, and began to apologize. The words poured out of me before I realized it was even myself speaking them. Apologies for taking her life, for abandoning her, for importuning her with my existence in the presence. I knew she couldn't hear me. I knew she might not even remember me at all when she awoke. But even if she didn't need to hear the words, I did.

"I love you," I said finally, closing my eyes like hers in imitation of sleep.

Neither of us stirred until I felt the invasion of Laurent's presence at the edge of my senses. I leaped from the bed, smoothing back the bedspread and adjusting the covers beneath Victoria's chin to cover up any trace of my presence beside her. As I felt Laurent move closer to the cottage, I began to hear the muffled cries of a human in tow.

I opened the door before Laurent reached it. The sun had risen and was already almost to its apex in the sky. "What took you so long?" I hissed, looking out over his shoulder cautiously, as if I expected Benito to have eluded my detection and followed him here. Satisfied that Laurent was accompanied by no other vampires, I looked to the unfortunate man draped over his shoulder. "You brought her a man?" I asked, the hint of a growl unfurling in the hollow of my throat.

"She's going to bite him, James. Not make love to him." Laurent rolled his heavily-lashed eyes and pushed past me into the cottage. "_Tres bon_. You made nice work of here." He set the dirty man down heavily onto the floor I'd just spent the last night cleaning. From the mud caked on his boots and the knees of his denim coveralls, I took him to be a farmer. When he cracked open one swollen eye to look at us, Laurent dealt an easy kick to his head, rendering him unconscious once more.

"Not so nice anymore," I said, scowling down at the trail of dirt now sullying the otherwise clean floor.

Laurent flashed me his usual charming smile. "Too clean is too suspicious. And better they see the dirt when they find her missing. Then they'll be looking for someone with big heavy boots to blame, not us."

I didn't have the energy to argue with him on that point. "One body isn't going to be enough to satisfy her. She'll be hungry again just as soon as she's done spilling his blood and be ready to move on to the next."

Laurent perched on the bed opposite Victoria and gazed at her curiously. "Too many bodies in one area will be suspicious. If Benito sends someone after us, he'll be able to deduce in no time what happened. Once she drains this creature, we must get as far away from here as possible before she feeds again."

"Easier said than done. How are we going to convince a newborn when she should feed and when she should hold her teeth?" I stood next to Victoria on the opposite side of the bed from Laurent and put a protective hand on her shoulder.

Laurent just grinned. "I have my fair share of experience with newborns. Or are you forgetting your first day with me?"

I had to admit an ironic grin at the memory of my first instructive fight with Laurent. "You couldn't control me then anymore than you can now."

Laurent just raised his eyebrow. "Your memory seems to have deteriorated. _De toute façon_, two vampires together should be enough to at least keep her in check. Unless she proves to be as extraordinarily willful as her sire."

_Her sire._ I shivered at his words. "How much longer?" I asked, changing the subject.

Laurent looked out the window and gauged the position of the sun in the sky. "Not much longer now. She'll be transformed by this evening."

* * *

When she woke, she was screaming. The sound took half a second longer to register in my mind than the sight of her large eyes flicking open, her full lip falling open in surprise. Laurent instantly moved to suppress her screams, but I could only stare, dumbfounded, back into the depths of her impossibly red eyes. It was ridiculous that I would be frightened of a vampire in my current condition, but the sight of her howling like that, with her pointed teeth opened wide for the bite, terrified me to the quick.

"Victoria, Victoria!" Laurent was shouting over her screeches, trying to bind her arms together between his hands and control her thrashing. "You're safe! You're with friends!"

At the violent commotion occurring around him, the farmer man on the floor awoke and began whimpering with fear. Laurent tried to reach him with one foot to render his attempts at escape ineffectual.

For my part, I remained frozen on my feet by the bedside.

Victoria's struggles did not cease even as Laurent's grip tightened, and he shot a reproachful glare to me. "You might help, you know," he hissed out, his eyes flashing red with disapproval.

I was startled to alertness by his words. "Right. Sorry." My hand shot out to stop the farmer from running to the door. I yanked him back to the bedside by his threadbare collar, and then thrust his pulsing throat between Victoria's greedy hands. "Eat," I urged her softly, venturing a cautious arm around her shaking shoulders.

She paused mid-thrash as the object of interest was introduced to her line of sight. She stopped screaming and looked up to me, her mouth still gaping, her red eyes shifting rapidly back and forth over my face as she struggled to comprehend my instruction. Laurent, too, paused and looked up at me, his palms still gripped over Victoria's twitching thighs.

"Bite," I reassured her, mimicking the motion with a snapping of my own teeth. I nodded my head to the struggling man's throat. "Drink."

She looked back to the farmer man's throat uncertainly.

Without thinking, I pulled the nail of my thumb over the poor creature's throat, slicing a neat line through his thin skin. "It's alright," I told Victoria, licking my lips despite myself as the first bead of blood rose to the surface.

Her gaze snapped obediently back to the blood on the man's throat. She made an unfamiliar hissing sound and then dove forward, her jaw opening and closing inexpertly on the man's windpipe, effectively silencing his last cries of protest as he slowly but surely choked to death on his own blood. I felt my own thirst sharpening at the little moans of satisfaction she made as the man's blood sluiced down her throat. Out of the corner of my eye I saw even Laurent licking his lips at the messy way Victoria bit and sucked, not even having the patience to drink in one place for longer than the span of one breath. Finally, she drained the man dry and shoved him aside with impatience.

"Don't spill," Laurent chided, ducking his head to lick an errant stream of blood dripping down the man's lifeless jaw.

Victoria growled and summarily bit down hard on the fleshy part of Laurent's ear, causing him to cry out with surprise and pain. I instinctively grabbed for her mass of red hair and yanked it back to loosen her grip on Laurent. "Stop!" I roared.

She turned to me with equal violence, hissing and spitting, aiming her pointed teeth at the exposed skin of my shoulder. I managed to rein her in – but barely – with the force of my knee to her midsection. My hands gripped her savagely strong arms above her head, while Laurent was engaged fully with the submission of her wildly swinging legs. The drained man was kicked to the floor, forgotten.

"Stop it," I growled, my jaw tensed over her throat threateningly.

Victoria was unimpressed by my threat. She unleashed a full-on snarl in my direction, then tossed me onto the floor as easily as if I were the human carcass she had just dispatched with. I pulled myself up to my elbows, in a daze, trying to determine where she'd gone. I turned my head in the direction of the door and cursed aloud when I found it open, hanging limply from one hinge, the other having been ripped from its socket. "She's gone," I informed Laurent.

"Go after her," he panted, searching around the tangle of bedding for the lower half of his ear. "I'll clean up here and catch up."

I didn't even need to wait for his permission before bolting out the door in pursuit of her. Once outside, however, I stumbled to a halt.

I could not detect her anywhere. I could neither smell her, nor hear her, nor _feel_ her presence anywhere in my mind. Had she managed to run out of the range of my abilities in so little time? I took off at an uncertain trot, hoping to cover some of the distance between us so that she would be close enough for me to track. A trot turned into a run, and a few moments hesitation stretched into an hour of aimless searching. Every time I thought I caught a whiff of lavender or heard a twig crack I shifted directions, plunging headlong through darkened fields and forest and prairie alike in pursuit of this phantom monster I had unleashed into the world. Why could I not find her? I had never had so much difficulty locating someone in all my new life as a vampire. Benito had praised me as the greatest tracker he'd ever met – so how then was this untried newborn so easily evading me?

"Victoria," I whispered as I ran, knowing that she could hear me if she were indeed nearby. "Victoria!" I was both enraged with frustration and sick with worry. What if the reason I could not detect her was that she had been harmed some way – or even killed? It is not easy to kill a vampire, especially for a human, but a newborn like Victoria might not know that fire was deadly to us, and might have unwittingly stepped into danger. She was my responsibility, and I had failed her.

My frantic search came to an end as I found myself standing in a sea of waist-high grass. There was nothing even my sharpened eyes could see but plains for miles on end in either direction. The grass smelled wet and sweet – a storm must have just passed through. Overhead, the moon cast a silvery glow on the blades of grass, which buckled and undulated with the strong gusts of wind sweeping in from the west. I began to fear that I had gone too far – was I even in the same state anymore? I should return to Laurent and see if he had had any luck in finding Victoria. Perhaps she had decided to return back to her cottage on her own. I glanced up at the stars, trying to get my bearings. If I had come from the south, I need only...

Suddenly, I was knocked over and pinned flat on my back in the grass. I looked up in surprise to see Victoria, her red hair tangled and wild, streaked with dirt and blood. Only half of her pale, beautiful face was illuminated by the moon above, and the half of her mouth that I could see was twisted in a sneer. The clean nightgown I had dressed her in was very conspicuously absent.

"Who _are_ you?" she hissed, pushing my shoulder back down into the damp earth when I made to get up. Though her stance was confrontational, hesitation flickered in her eyes. I could see she was struggling to remember something. Did she know me? Did she even know herself?

So as not to overwhelm her with all I had to explain at once, I merely said, "My name is James." I remained obediently on my back, not wanting to give her an excuse to get worked up again. I was beginning to see what Laurent had meant when he called newborn vampires unpredictable. "Where have you been?" I asked as calmly as I could, unwilling to admit even to myself that her disappearance had scared me half to death.

Her body stiffened defensively and her bare thighs clenched around my waist like a vice. "I was thirsty," she told me, her eyes daring me to contradict her. She was still searching my face, as if trying to reconcile it with the name I had given her.

"Did you not hear me calling your name?" I asked patiently. I was trying desperately to ignore the tempting sight of her naked breasts hanging directly in my line of sight. My discomfort was only amplified by her inability to sit still on top of me. Where _had_ she lost her nightgown!

She appeared to sulk for a moment. I almost thought that perhaps she had not understood that it was _her_ name, but then at last she answered in a petulant tone: "Yes."

I released the breath I had been holding in relief. At least she remembered that much. "Then why didn't you come to me?"

"You were angry with me," she explained with exasperation. "And it wasn't my fault!" She punched me hard beneath my ribs, and I would have doubled over with pain if she hadn't been holding me down with her other hand. She was so much stronger than me that fighting back was out of the question. I bore the pain as well I could, settling on a muted groan to express my discomfort. "_You_ told me to bite, so I did!" she continued, crossing her arms across her breasts with a huff.

Without her holding my shoulders down, I managed to bring myself halfway up to a sitting position. "Yes, I did. You were right to bite the human, but you should not have bitten Laurent." _Without cause_, I thought wryly, remembering all the times I had bitten him myself.

She repeated Laurent's name out loud, tasting it to see if it was familiar. "I know him," she said with a tiny gasp of realization.

"You know me, too," I reminded her, sliding a possessive arm around the smooth skin of her waist. How different this beautiful creature was from my Vicky, and yet how much alike! She did not move as I brushed her tangled hair away from her darkened eyes, which were regarding me with more curiosity than distrust. She was like a perfect replica doll of Victoria, but nowhere near as delicate. This Victoria wouldn't break when I touched her. As I leaned in closer I could see that her red lips were outlined in blood – cooled now, but still damp. She'd fed since she left the cottage - multiple times if the streaks of blood painted up and down her limbs were any indication. This Victoria would never hate me for what I'd become. This Victoria would celebrate it _with_ me. Thirst and desire tingled down my throat and I moved forward to press my mouth to hers.

She dropped her arms from her breasts in surprise as my mouth met hers, and timidly parted her lips as I slid my tongue over them. I moaned at the taste of her – the savory tang of blood mixed with the sweet taste of her mouth was a heady combinatio - and I deepened the kiss, wanting to taste more of her. All at once my fears and apprehensions about Victoria's transformation were dissolved. Victoria had been right. This was how love was meant to be – equal, unbreakable, and incautious. It was _better_ now that we were alike.

While at first she responded eagerly to my advances, after a moment she pulled back slightly, but made no move to dislodge my arm from around her midsection. "I... don't think so," she concluded with a frown.

Her words were as shocking as a slap to the face, and I growled my displeasure. "You don't think so...what?" I moved to renew the kiss, but I was stopped by her firm palm on my chest.

"I don't think I know you," she said, and her words hinted at annoyance.

I was crushed. "Yes, you do," I disagreed, gritting my teeth in anger. "You love me. You begged me to turn you into a vampire. _I'm your sire_."

She tilted her head with confusion. "Sire?" she echoed uncertainly.

"The one who made you," I said with growing impatience. "The one you obey."

An unpracticed growl uncurled itself from her throat and she was on her feet in an instant. "I don't have to obey you – or anyone!" she declared, and before I could stop her she had vanished into the glare of the rising sun.

I stood there, staring helplessly in the direction she had fled, and it was thus that Laurent found me only moments later.

"_There_ you are!" he said, eyeing me with disapproval as he slowed his pace and stopped in front of me. "I've been trying to follow your scent for hours!" He examined my crestfallen appearance. "Did you find your Victoria?" he ventured to ask.

"No," I snapped at him, absently cracking my knuckles at my sides. "Whatever she is, she's not _my_ Victoria any longer." I knew it was foolish to have expected her to remember everything about us after only a few moments into her new life, but she had managed to remember Laurent, hadn't she? Despite reason I was frustrated, disappointed – and jealous, if I were being honest with myself. What was Laurent to her that I wasn't!

I sighed at the look of confusion Laurent was wearing and shook my head. "Yes, I found her," I explained, "But she didn't remember me, got upset, and ran away again."

"That is to be expected," Laurent said with a slight shrug. "You remembered nothing of your former life for months."

"But she remembered you," I said with a low growl.

"Oh..." he said, obviously trying to conceal his amusement behind a studied frown. "I see."

I growled again before deciding that fighting with Laurent was not going to help me get Victoria back. "Let's go find her again," I said, then, remembering her distracting state of undress, added, "...and get her some new clothes."

As I snarled and turned to leave, I thought I detected the trace of a smile on Laurent's lips.

* * *

**Thoughts or Comments are always welcome.**


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